


Girl On the Run

by Rad_pleasure_babe



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: 80's punk, Dark, Feminist Themes, Gen, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-05-19 11:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 47,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14872733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rad_pleasure_babe/pseuds/Rad_pleasure_babe
Summary: All Dana wanted was to be left alone. She kept a decent job, cherished her modest studio apartment, and was pretty good at keeping her head down. That was before though; before the children in Derry started to disappear; before she started having nightmares that crept into her waking life; before she became local psycho Henry and his scumbag friends' latest target.





	1. Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!  
> This story is currently a work in progress but I have a lot of chapters done. I'll be posting two chapters a week, likely on Wednesdays/Thursdays, until it's finished. BUT I'm gonna kick it off with three chapters to start since the first two are kinda slow.  
> The pictures I've included are polaroids that coincide with a setting or event in each chapter. I thought they might be fun to add :) The chapter titles (and work title) are based on punk songs from the 70s/80s. I highly recommend listening to them. This first chapter is named after a song by The Nuns :)  
> Please comment if you feel so inclined! Hope you enjoy!  
> 

The Alley Cat was one of three bars in Derry Township, and that made it popular. It wasn’t much more than a hole in the wall, nestled just south of Town Square on the corner of Walnut and 12th. The building had stood since the 20’s and was old and brick, formerly a butcher shop. It was a dim dive with a twelve-seat bar, a few tattered booths, amber and green glass hanging lights, and a green and white-checkered tile floor. In the back was a six by six-foot kitchen that smelled like grease and orange Pinesol. Above the wet bar a hung a neon sign of a woman’s hand with long red fingernails and a gold bracelet clutching a red and green long stemmed rose. The bar’s owner, an ornery old man named Harry Kent, didn’t come around much once his doctor told him his liver wouldn’t be worth a damn if the drinking didn’t stop. One bartender and one cook was the only staff it needed to function like a well-oiled machine.  
It was a slow Wednesday night and Dana was ready for it to be over. She always picked at herself when it was dead at work. Tonight she’d made herself bleed twice gouging at a hangnail on her thumb. She’d made less than a dozen drinks in the past eight hours and half of them had been for the same guy. Three customers total made tonight the slowest shift she’d worked in almost two years. Worst of all, her tips reflected those numbers. Her hourly salary of $2.25 didn’t exactly leave her flush with cash on it’s own. At first the downpour and flooding had kept people housebound; even Friday and Saturday nights crawled by with virtually no business. And just when things hard started to let up outside the Denbrough boy had gone missing. Everyone was stunned and scared and going out drinking seemed lewd considering the circumstances. The residents of Derry stayed close to home. The rain served as easy blame for the town’s bleak aura, but it seemed unlikely that sun would bring much relief. Dana had begun to feel that something was seriously off in Derry, though she couldn’t pinpoint the origin of that feeling. The longer she sat with it the more urgently it gnawed at her.  
The lull in business made her unease all the more present. Still, part of her enjoyed the quiet. Dana didn’t particularly miss yuppies barking drink orders at her, straining their shrill voices to be heard over blaring music. Nor did she miss the constant bombardment of advances by drunken boys, drunken husbands, drunken grandfathers. But she needed their money. Tips were the lifeblood of her income and being the only female bartender in Derry gave her a leg up on the competition. That she was young, pretty, and heavily tattooed only increased her value: she was a novelty. Some people would come to the Alley Cat just to gawk at her: lean arms like fleshy patchwork, covered in traditional images, left leg a full sleeve from hip to ankle, art packed so tight barely any pale skin peeked through. She’d been pulling in anywhere from 80 to 150 bucks a night since she’d started, sometimes even more on weekends.  
Tonight Dana had made $13, and seeing as it was almost three in the morning she was pretty sure that was all she was going to get. Terry, the cook, had already finished cleaning the flat top and changing the oil in the fryers. He emerged from the kitchen with his coat on.  
“You mind if I head out just a few minutes early tonight? It’s me and Nancy’s two year…I was gonna cook her a late dinner…or an early breakfast…depending on which way you look at it I guess.”  
Dana smiled. “Good for you Terry. Yeah you go ahead, have a nice dinner. Or breakfast. You want a drink?”  
“Nah I got beers at home. I’ll go out the back. You have a good night.”  
“See you tomorrow.” When Terry was gone Dana smiled again and laughed a little under her breath. “So awkward, God love him.” She checked her watch again.  
“2:56...” she deliberated, then shrugged. “Fuck it.” She lifted the gate and stepped out from behind the bar. No customers meant there was no prep or cleaning to be done for the next day. She walked towards the front to flip the sign and shut off the lights. As she reached it she noticed a figure on the other side of the door, their face obscured by the open sign’s glow. Her hand was already on the deadbolt when the man spoke.  
“Are you closed?” His voice was small and sounded strained.  
Dana sighed and reluctantly opened the door just enough to get a look at him. He appeared to be in his early 40s. He had pleasant features but they were weighted and drooping. His skin was ashy and his eyes were pink and the skin around them glistened. He wore a flannel shirt and paint stained blue jeans. “Are you closed?” he asked again, craning his neck a little to see inside.  
“I was just closing up,” Dana responded.  
“Oh.” His face drooped further towards his shoes.  
He turned to leave. There was something so tragic about him, such a quiet, fatal sadness. It worried her. She had an idea of who this man might be and if she was right he could certainly use a drink. She opened the door wider and stepped out. “Hey, hold on. Kitchen’s closed; our cook went home for the night. But if you’re thirsty I can help you.”  
His expression lightened a bit. “I’d appreciate it, very much.”  
“I just gotta check your ID.”  
“I look underage?” he asked, his tone genuinely surprised.  
“I gotta make sure it’s not expired. House policy.”  
He reached into his wallet and extracted his license, handing it over.  
Dana’s eyes studied his name: Denbrough, Zackary, R. A long, prickly shiver shook her every cell. She knew it. Zack Denbrough. His son, George, had been missing for nearly three weeks.  
She swallowed, trying to downplay her uneasiness. “Come on in.” She opened the door and held it for him. As he walked past she got a whiff of whisky and cigarettes and saw that he was a little wobbly. Probably not the best idea to serve him but it was too late now, he’d already seated himself on a bar stool, his boney shoulders slumped, head bowed.  
Dana lifted the bar gate. “What can I get you?”  
“Whisky soda bitters please.”  
“You want the well? Something nicer?”  
“Whatever you got is fine.”  
Dana grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey and flipped its head into a bucket glass. As  
the bourbon poured she packed the glass with ice and added bitters, then topped it with a shot of soda from the gun. When she set the drink in front of him his face brightened a little.  
“Thanks.”  
“No problem.”  
He took a long sip and crunched some of the ice. He stared into the glass. “I’m not keeping you from something am I?” he asked suddenly. “Some one? At home?”  
“No one’s waiting for me.” She filled a pint glass with water and slid it towards him. He smiled weakly.  
There was silence between them for a few minutes. Dana tried to look busy wiping glasses and straightening stacks of bar napkins.  
“You know it’s funny,” Zack said suddenly. “I used to stay out late like this drinking, when I was young. I didn’t have a wife waiting up for me. I didn’t have any—any kids. Used to think I was the luckiest guy in the world, no one to think of but myself…did whatever I wanted, whenever…” he took a sip.  
“Do you miss it?”  
“Hmm?”  
“The freedom?”  
“The truth?”  
“Sure.”  
“Not a goddamn bit. My wife, my kids…my kids…” his jaw trembled.  
Dana wasn’t a comforting person by nature. She had no idea what to say to a weeping man whose young son was missing and, presumably dead. She did the only thing she thought might help in the moment and topped off his glass with a generous splash of whisky. He gulped half of it and released a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t normally do this, I shouldn’t have-”  
“I’m a bartender,” Dana interrupted as gently as she could. “It happens, a lot…for way more trivial reasons than yours.”  
He stared at her through misty eyes. “Well, thank you.” He raised his glass to her and finished the drink. “How much?”  
Dana shook her head. “I got this one.” He protested but she was firm. “I already settled the register. Don’t worry, it’s on me.” His eyes welled but he didn’t argue. “I think you should head out now, Mr. Denbrough. It’s late. Your wife’s probably worried.”  
“Yeah. She probably is.” He rose, a little shaky.  
Dana came from behind the bar to walk him out. “You’re not trying to drive are you?”  
“Oh no,” he answered dreamily. “I just sort of wandered here, I can wander home the same way.” As Dana turned the deadbolt Zack reached a shaky hand into his wallet and extracted a $20 bill. He folded it in half, and reached to take Dana’s hand. “I can’t take this—”  
“Please,” he said earnestly, holding the 20 towards her. “Please take it.”  
She sighed and accepted it. “Thanks. Take care of yourself.”  
When he’d gone Dana folded the bill into her pocket and rubbed the hand he’d touched against her jeans until it was chapped. She re-locked the door and turned off all the lights that weren’t florescent. She turned up the radio and Fleetwood Mac crooned out and echoed through the empty place. She made herself a Negroni, mixed a double shot of gin with Campari and sweet vermouth and threw in an orange peel. It was her favorite drink, sleek ruby red liquid, vaguely medicine tasting in a way that she liked. She only drank them at work though, a ritual treat. She sat in a booth with her feet propped on the bench opposite her and lit a cigarette. She tried not to smoke too much. It was hard, though, she loved it. Especially the way the cherry on the tip of her cigarette hissed and crackled when she dragged on it. She’d made her drink strong tonight. Between it and the buzz off the tobacco Dana felt pleasantly light. She didn’t always stay for a drink after she closed but the night had ended on a heavy note and all she had at home was beer.  
As she took another drag that bad, gnawing feeling resumed. When she was alone it was practically impossible to dodge. By the time work ended and she was winding down for the night it would creep to the front of her consciousness and sit there; it would begin to make connections between other thoughts and patterns and happenings, encompassing a broader spectrum of fears and worries, tethering them into one giant knot of awareness that was still ambiguous, but just strangely cohesive enough to make her wonder. It wasn’t anxiety. Not exactly. Dana knew anxiety. It was concentrated to specific events and people. The triggers were predictable and thus easy to avoid. This fear was more abstract. Walking to her car after work, for instance, never used to bother her. She didn’t care that it was late and dark or that she was alone, didn’t give it a second thought until recently. These days she walked with her keys in her hand and looked over her shoulder every few steps, startled by any sound, any movement. When had the change taken place? She sipped her drink and tried to trace it. A month maybe? Or two? More like two. Had anything happened? Not to her, not that she could remember at least. But in town? She lit another cigarette, thought hard. Two months ago…what was it? What had changed? The rain had come and George Denbrough had gone missing but that was only a few weeks ago. There was something before that. Something to prompt it.  
The florescent lady’s hand flickered and went off, jolting Dana from her thoughts. It came back on with a low buzz. She shivered, drawing her shoulders up to her ears. Shooting back the last sip of her drink, Dana slung her bag over her shoulder and went out the back, pushing in the lock on the handle as the door swung shut. Her Gremlin was parked in the back lot. She unlocked it and slid in, checking her rear view mirror for unwanted backseat passengers. It was irrational but she didn’t care. She wished the liquor store was still open.


	2. Young Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title is from a Sue Saad and the Next song, one of my favorite songs of all time.  
> Enjoy!

By the time Dana reached her apartment complex it was past four. She lived on the west side of Derry on the outskirts, the “poor side of town,” by anyone’s standards. Her building looked more like a 70’s motel than an apartment: three floors with a wrought iron staircase and matching balcony rails. Dana lived on the third floor. Her apartment was tiny, barely 300 square feet. But the rent was cheap enough for her to squirrel most of her money into savings (or tattoos).  
As she got out of her car and headed for the stairs she noticed a figure perched near the top of the steps. Weird for someone to be up this late. When she reached the second floor she realized it was the girl who lived next door. She was just a little thing, probably thirteen or fourteen, with wavy auburn hair. Dana had seen her here and there; she usually got home from school around the time Dana left for work. Tonight she had on an oversized t-shirt and green socks. She tucked her legs up inside the shirt and hugged them there, rocking. Dana nodded at her and she flashed a half smile in return, seemingly preoccupied.  
Dana had never spoken to her before but it was odd to see her out so late. She paused at her door.  
“You ok?”  
The girl looked up. “Yeah,” she said quickly. “I’m fine.”  
“You lock yourself out?”  
“No, I’m fine.”  
Dana raised an eyebrow. “It’s kinda late for you to be out isn’t it?”  
The girl eyed her coolly. “It’s summer.”  
“Right. Do your thing.” Dana slid her key into the lock and twisted.  
“I’m jonesing…” the girl piped up suddenly.  
“You’re...?”  
“I want a smoke...”  
Dana grinned. “I gotcha. Young for that aren’t you?”  
The girl shrugged.  
“What’s your name?” Digging into her purse Dana extracted a pack of Parliaments and a lighter.  
“Beverly,” the girl said. She twisted her legs free and scurried over.  
“Beverly what?”  
The girl stopped cold. “You gonna tell on me?”  
“No, just curious. We’re neighbors right?” She handed the girl a cigarette and lit it for her.  
The girl took a long drag deep into her lungs. She didn’t choke the way most kids do when they try to smoke, she didn’t hold it in her mouth either; she was seasoned. She let it out slow and deliberate. " “Beverly Marsh.”  
“Beverly Marsh. I’m Dana.”  
“How come you’re up so late?”  
“I just got off work.” Dana lit her own cigarette.  
Beverly studied her for a moment, taking in the ink on her arms. “I like your tattoos. What do they mean?”  
“Mean? They don’t mean anything.” It was the truth. Their purpose was decoration, purely aesthetic.  
“Did they hurt?”  
She nodded. “They hurt.”  
“Why’d you get them then? If they don’t mean anything and they hurt, why’d you get them?”  
Countless people had asked Dana this question, though more often than not they were men and they were drunk. She always lied which didn’t bother her on moral grounds, but sometimes when the words came out they clashed so violently with the truth that it almost made her laugh. There was something about this particular girl that made lying seem unnecessary. Coming from her the question was innocent, no agenda beyond curiosity. “I guess,” she started. “I want people to think that I’m tough. That’s one reason”  
The girl thought for a second as she dragged on her cigarette. “What’s the other reason?”  
Dana sighed and shook her head. She was a little amazed to be sharing this much with a stranger, let a lone a stranger she had almost ten years on. But she figured fuck it, no point in holding back now. “The other reason is to convince myself that I’m tough. I think that’s the main reason, actually.”  
“Does it work?”  
“Kinda.” Dana rolled the cherry off her cigarette and offered it to Beverly. “If anyone asks, you did not get this from me.”  
“Got it,” Beverly said, taking it eagerly and tucking it behind her ear. “Thanks. And thanks for not giving me shit, you know, for smoking.”  
“It would be kinda hypocritical if I did. I’ll see you around building.”  
Beverly put out her cigarette and flicked the butt off the balcony. She turned to Dana and her green eyes were grateful and a little sad. “Thanks,” she said, and ducked inside.  
That night Dana rolled a joint for the first time in months. She felt weird after her interaction with Beverly. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but odd. She’d seen the kid’s father around the complex a few times; he was a stringy man with wet-looking skin and a gaunt face. She didn’t like the look of him. Something about him. When they’d made eye contact it felt like a splinter. She took a hit off the joint and the husky smoke snaked through her lungs and fogged her brain nicely. Music, she thought. Need music.  
She kept her records well organized, slid them into a tower of milk crates, alphabetized. Her favorite tapes were mounted in a cassette frame on the wall by the kitchen. She kept the rest under her bed in liquor cases she’d gotten from work. She was eclectic when it came to music but punk held a special place in her heart. It was a genre that wasn’t always easy to find in a town like Derry, which made the sparse treasures she unearthed extra satisfying. She’d found an original press X-RAY SPEX album at the summer flea for $2, the entire Ramones discography on vinyl at a garage sale, CRASS and SSD tapes from the Salvation Army bins. Tonight though, Dana wanted something mellow. She browsed her selection, raking a finger across brittle record spines as she searched. She decided on Lou Reed, Transformer. She sank onto the couch and listened to the pleasantly repetitive riffs.  
Her apartment was tiny but it was hers and for that reason she loved it. The living room was her bedroom; the bathroom straight through in the back and kitchen on the right. Everything she owned was used but she’d managed to find a few treasures: emerald velvet couch, dusty Oriental rug, brass floor lamp, tiny Formica table and diner chairs, and an old Crosley record player. She’d hung shelves, put up posters and a few paintings she’d made in high school. Her twin bed was tucked in the corner. There had been a time in Dana’s not too distant past when she would have done anything to have her own place. She nearly had, she mused bitterly. Sometimes smoking pot made sunken memories wash up. It didn’t matter how long they’d been buried or how hard she worked to abandon them; one way or another they always managed to drift back into awareness and hover there, floating…  
A sharp noise jolted her. It was a screeching, squealing sound, shrill and piercing. The joint had disoriented her and she couldn’t tell if it had come from in her apartment or outside somewhere. It didn’t sound like an animal or a person. She couldn’t be sure but there was tactility to it; almost like latex or rubber being squeezed. It was followed by another sound: a faint, raspy giggle. Dana stood up, the tiny hairs on her arms raised. She scanned the apartment with her bloodshot eyes. Even high she knew it was too small for anyone to hide in, she could see the whole place from where she stood. She was alone. She eyed the joint in her right hand, accusingly. “This was not a good idea tonight,” she said, stabbing it out in an ashtray. It was a bullshit excuse and she knew it. She’d smoked a hundred joints and never heard sounds that weren’t there.


	3. Fugitive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title is a Violators song and is the first introduction we have to the Bowers Gang.  
> Hope you like it <3

Thursday night was as busy as Wednesday was slow. The mourning veil over Derry had been ripped away and suddenly everyone wanted to get drunk. Dana could barely keep up with people shouting orders, demanding another beer, Manhattans, a pitcher of Margaritas, a round of shots. She’d had to kick out half a dozen idiots for starting fights or trying to screw in the bathroom; even caught one guy trying to do a line of coke right off the bar. That was a first. It didn’t let up until nearly 2 AM. Somehow, miraculously, by the time last call came around an hour later the bar was empty. It was as though a tornado flew through, leaving a battered trail of destruction in its wake. Part of that was Dana’s own fault; she was a bit like a typhoon herself when she tended bar, swirling bottles and glassware, her left hand raining long streams of liquor while her right shook cocktails until they were frothy. Her dad had taught her to shake with one hand when she was ten: by smacking a glass down on top of the metal jig at an angle you could seal it so no liquid came out. Sometimes he’d throw parties and get so faded he couldn’t even pour so he’d have her do it, walk her through the steps of each cocktail. He slurred but always somehow always remembered the recipes down to the ounce. Dana shuddered, shaking thoughts of him from her head. They’d been popping up all evening. She wanted a drink; it was concerning how badly she wanted one.  
She could hear Terry in the kitchen finishing up the last of the dishes and singing along to ACDC on the radio. She still had a considerable amount of chaos behind the bar to clean up before she could even think about taking off. Her feet were killing her, a deep, dull ache in each sole. She flipped the sign to ‘closed,’ switching off the main lights as she slipped back behind the bar. She was getting ready to wipe down the liquor bottles but when a low sound curled into her ears. It was the same little chuckle, gravelly, sharp and mocking. She heard it clearly. She had just enough time to brace herself for the tremor that rattled her body. Her eyes swept wildly over her surroundings but there was no one. The bar was empty. Terry was still in the kitchen, and this time there was no joint to blame it on, only the knowledge that she had heard it. Her ears were poised, listening intently. They were met with a loud POP! It echoed through the building and made her breath catch in her throat. This time its direction was clear. Dana stepped from behind the bar. To the left was the hallway that led to the bathrooms. That’s where it came from. It was dark with only the hot glow of fluorescents to illuminate it and Dana felt drawn into it in a way she didn’t like. Her palms were sweating and she could feel her heart beat in her eardrums and throat. Everything had gone still and silent. She couldn’t hear Terry singing anymore, she couldn’t hear her own footsteps as they led her, without her consent somehow, down the hallway, stopping outside the men’s bathroom door. That bad, raw feeling she’d been trying so hard to evade flooded her all at once, filling her mouth with a sour smack. Sickening memories crawled to the forefront of her brain, melding into her fear and giving it fuel. Her sweat was pinpricks on her skin, stinging her eyes and polluting her pores with cold panic. She heard screeching again and this time she knew what it was: someone raking tensed fingers over a balloon, squeezing it, making it scream. Her hand reached shakily for the doorknob. She felt suspended, dangling, floating.  
The front door swung open and hit the wall hard. It was enough to jolt Dana back into herself. She jerked her hand away from the knob as voices began to fill the bar behind her. She backed quickly out of the hallway, casting another look at the bathroom door before turning to face the four very drunk men who’d stumbled inside. They didn’t notice her as she slid behind the bar but she was able to get a look at them. They weren’t men; two of them barely looked seventeen. She wasn’t sure about the other two; eighteen or nineteen at the most. Her blood warmed as she took on a familiar role and she tried to shake off the last remnants of terror she’d felt moments ago.  
Two of the boys were hanging on each other, a drunken, human chain. One was big boned, stout with brown hair and a trucker hat, the other gangly and pale. His bleached hair clung to his forehead. When he fell down another boy, tall and wiry with shaggy dark hair and a coyote face, doubled over with laughter. The fourth boy, while clearly just as drunk from the way he swayed on his feet, was quiet. He was a little shorter than the other three and lean in a way that made him look older. He wore a muscle tank and tattered jeans. His sandy blond hair was trimmed into a mullet. His hand rested on the seat of a bar stool and he spun it, entranced.  
“Hey,” she said, loud enough to breech their hysterics. “Can you guys read? We’re closed.”  
They whined in unison. The coyote boy staggered over to the bar and planted his elbows on it. When he grinned it looked like he had too many teeth for his mouth. “Come onn babe, we just wanna couple a’ beers.” He stuck out his bottom lip and made puppy dog sounds and the other two erupted with laughter. The fourth boy didn’t look up; he just kept spinning the stool, his hand slapping the leather more roughly each time.  
Dana raised her eyebrows at him. “Jesus,” she mumbled. She could smell the booze wafting off them, cheap and sour. “We’re closed. Go home.”  
Coyote boy leaned his head back and pouted. “Oh my gooddd just a couple of beers…we got money. Do you hafta be such a bitch?”  
“Yeah,” the blond one piped up from the floor. “Why you gotta be a bitch, bitch?” They laughed. The big kid burped loudly. More laughter.  
Delightful, Dana thought. She smiled coyly. “Wow, you guys are really making me like you. And your tactic is spot on, I mean coming in after close and calling me a bitch, totally endearing. Never mind the fact that you’re all, obviously, wasted, and completely underage.”  
“How old are you?” It was the boy with the mullet. He’d stopped spinning the seat and rested his hand on it intently. He raised his eyes to Dana. They were light and cold and scanned her with undisguised hunger. As he studied her the corners of his mouth twitched into a strange expression. “You 21? You don’t look 21…you could be my age.” His hand began stroking the barstool lightly, tracing circles around it with his fingertips, scratching it. The other boys snickered.  
It was rare for Dana to feel threatened by anyone let alone a shitty kid with a mullet, but there was something about him that irked her past mere annoyance. She’d grown accustomed to being leered at but this kid’s gall was disarming.  
“I’m old enough to be in a bar. Unlike you.”  
Again the corner of his mouth twitched up. But it wasn’t quite a smile. His bleary eyes danced with intrigue as he leaned over the counter towards her. He bit his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes, his hand slapping the stool with a leathery smack as he dug his fingers into the fabric.  
“You alright Dana?” Terry emerged from the kitchen, apron in hand. His face stern. The coyote boy fidgeted as the one with the trucker hat helped his friend off the floor. They stopped smiling. Their leader seemed less fazed by Terry’s presence, but still took his weight off the bar and stepped back.  
The relief Dana felt was infuriating. Was she so afraid of a few drunk teenagers that she needed a man to make her feel safe? Nah she thought fuck that. Her next decision was brash but necessary if she wanted to assert herself. She wasn’t sure what it was about these particular boys that was so disturbing but she refused to let anyone intimidate her in her place of work. She looked at Terry, then back to the boys. “I’m fine Terry. You can go home.”  
Terry hesitated. “You boys know we’re closed?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.  
“Terry,” she said sharply. “I got this. Go home.” As she spoke the boy with the mullet met her gaze. She held it.  
“You sure?”  
“Yep.”  
“Alright…” Terry was concerned but he knew well enough not to argue with her. “I’ll see you tomorrow…get home safe.”  
“I will.”  
Terry left, though clearly still hesitant. As Dana heard the back door smack behind him she felt a little pang of fear. She stood her ground though, eyes fixed on the boy with the mullet. He stared back, his expression hard to read. He walked slowly back and forth in front of the bar, pacing like a dog waiting to be fed. “Think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?” He asked, his voice soft.  
“I think you’ve been asked to leave.”  
“Oh we’ll go. Soon as we get what we came for.” He approached again, planting himself back on the stool and gesturing at her arm. “I seen you around town. Sure got a lot of tattoos.You must like pain.” His eyes were so cold but they burned her. Dana’s adrenaline spiked; her legs had started to shake.  
“Look kid—”  
“I’m not a kid,” he cut her off. There was anger in his voice.  
“Look sir,” she said mockingly. “You wanna go get drunker why don’t you steal a 40 from Circle K. Raid your dad’s liquor cabinet. I really don’t give a shit. Just get out of my bar.”  
“I’d rather drink here,” he hissed, leaning in further. “Keep you company. What time you get off?”  
“Assuming you ever leave?”  
“If I leave who’s gonna get you off?” He stuck out the tip of his tongue, brought it slowly to his upper lip, licked. Behind him his friends screeched with laughter.  
“Jesus Christ this is really getting stupid.” Dana shook her head, exhausted. “I’m not really sure how else to communicate this. You and your friends aren’t getting shit; I’m not giving you beer, and this whole self-entitled, bad-boy thing you’re going for might work better if you didn’t look like such a fucking hillbilly.”  
The boys grew gravely quiet. Their leader stopped smirking “What’d you say?” he asked, his deep voice solemn.  
Dana was unnerved by his tone but she kept going. “You heard me. Now why don’t you go before I call the cops?” She absolutely despised police. It was an empty threat, but they didn’t need to know that. She noticed the boy wince ever so slightly at their mention. He turned and took a couple steps towards the door, only to whirl back and slam himself against the bar. He slapped both of his palms on the counter hard enough to make the glasses shake. This time Dana couldn’t stop herself from recoiling.  
“You know what I think?” he asked, glaring up at her. “Think maybe if you got laid once in awhile you might not be such fucking cunt. Sometimes that’s all it takes, one good fuck. Dike like you got a taste of the real thing, you might even like it.” Despite his obvious rage his voice was composed. The muscles in his arms twitched. His friends advanced like a pack of hyenas circling a fallen gazelle and the gravity of the situation sounded off an alarm in Dana’s head clear as day. But her anger resonated the same frequency. His words made her blood boil. She reached a hand out and groped around for the soda gun, keeping her eyes on the boys as they spread themselves around the counter. Her hand found the cord.  
“You’re one vulgar kid,” she said, slowly pulling the gun closer. “If it’s that big a deal, you can have a drink.” She gave the cord one good yank and gripped the gun in her hands. “Here, drink up.” In one quick movement she took aim and released a jet of soda into the boy’s face. He stumbled in surprise and the alcohol in his system did the rest, knockin him flat on his back, choking, sputtering, as his friends clambered to his aid. While they were preoccupied Dana snatched the phone and dialed, hitting the speaker button. She cranked the volume on the phone and held the receiver out in front of her.  
The boy had recovered and was on his feet. His face contorted in fury, not a shred of composure now. “You fucking whore!” he screamed, his deep voice suddenly shrill. “I’m gonna fucking kill you, you cunt! You fucking bitch!” He lunged but his friends were quick to grab him. He thrashed against them, bucking, snarling rabid.  
“Henry!” the huskier boy had him by the arm and was pointing at the phone. “Henry stop! Look!” he insisted.  
“9-1-1,” the operator’s voice sang through the phone. “What’s your emergency?” Dana didn’t say anything. Instead she moved the phone to her ear and took the call off speaker, covering the microphone with her hand. She raised an eyebrow at the intruders, waiting, challenging them. That was all it took. She watched as Henry jerked his arm from his friend’s grip and wiped water from his face with his forearm. He glared at Dana, rage quivering in his jaw. Then he abruptly turned on his haunches and stormed out, throwing the door open so hard it smacked the front window and cracked it. The larger boy trailed out after him, followed by the bleach blonde. Coyote boy was the last to go, turning back to Dana, puckering his lips and blowing her a snide kiss. When they were gone Dana stood behind the counter, trembling.  
“Hello?” the operator said in her ear. “Do you need assistance?”  
It took Dana a second to answer; her voice seemed to be lost in her throat.  
“Do you need assistance?”  
“No,” she said finally. “No, I don’t I’m sorry. Misdialed.” She hung up and crossed the room to lock the door. Her hands continued to shake as she poured herself a shot of tequila. It burned comfort from her throat down into her chest. Her tremors had eased but her mind was still racing. “What the fuck?” she said aloud. She’d worked at the Alley Cat for almost three years, had a hundred different confrontations with all manner of aggressive assholes, and never truly feared for her safety. And to feel so genuinely threatened by high school kids was almost too bizarre to comprehend. She felt absolutely drained; so much adrenaline had run through her between dealing with them and whatever she’d heard in the bathroom. The bathroom, she remembered. She’d been distracted by those boys and had completely forgotten about it. She remembered the sounds and for a second she considered grabbing her bag and just getting the hell out of there. That might not be smart either though. If she left she’d be putting distance between her and whatever she’d heard back there. Then again those boys might be waiting for her outside. She was sure she’d made an enemy for life with the one, Henry. The way he looked when she sprayed him down, eyes bulging, face twisted into a snarl, screaming obscenities so loud his voice cracked. Her guess was he didn’t hear no very much. She weighed her options and decided she’d risk the walk to her car. The whole incident with the bathroom was too troubling to ignore; the fear she’d felt then was like nothing she’d even experienced, the way it lured her as though she had no control over herself. She wasn’t going to risk it happening again. She downed another shot of tequila and threw her bag over her shoulder. Terry kept a baseball bat by the kitchen entrance just in case. She grabbed it on her way out. She was relieved to find no one outside waiting for her. Once in her car she adjusted the rear view mirror and checked the back seat as she always did. That’s when she saw them: a pair of shining eyes that collided with hers in the reflection. They stood out strong against a white face, glowing feverish yellow, wet and glistening. She spun to look but the back seat was empty when she faced it. Her eyes scoured the shadows. She turned back, searched the mirror again. Her car was empty. Dana cowered, balling her fists and shrinking into herself. She buried her face in her hands and cried for the first time in years.


	4. Drive My Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a surprise day off today so I thought I'd go ahead and post a couple chapters early!  
> This chapter is named after a song by Nasty Facts which has one of the most incredible guitar solos I've ever heard. Their first seven inch came out in 1981 and it's amazing!  
> In case there is any confusion this chapter starts out with a dream Dana is having, the content of which will be explained soon.  
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy :)

In her dream she’s touching her father’s hand and finding it cold and plasticine, ridged like the formaldehyde frog belly she’d sliced open in biology class. She looks in his eyes: peaceful, almost ecstatic day-old doughnut glaze. They used to be warm and rough, weathered and worn from years working on old cars. Now his soul patch is speckled with flecks of neon orange barf and dusty dandruff powders his eyebrows. When she pulls her fingers back they feel coated in his death wax; all these textures, solid-like liquids that are only sinister when lack of life makes them sluggish and collected.  
She dreams that she isn’t looking at him anymore. She dreams her eyesight is a pinhole tunnel now and all she can look at is a spot on the wall where the paper is curdling and spreading itself barren to black mold. Dirty spot. There are crumbs in the sheets sandwiching her and the comforter is starched but not clean. Her nipples hurt and her abdomen is all sharp shards and burning fire that glows with pink light from the alarm clock that she cannot see because all she can see is the molding, parting wallpaper making a V-shape.  
Her eyes are closed now. She can still see it though. And she smells sour armpit or body yeast of some kind and can feel frog thrusts and hear the creaks of an apparatus that moves with them. That part of the wallpaper spreads wider and the fungus seeps in.  
That same garbled giggle, from a reality very far from where she is, slices into the experience that is replaying. It starts soft and slow, circling, dragging her back to consciousness little by little. It grows louder, more shrill, each jarring echo encircling her sphere of vision until it’s nothing more than pounding vibrations that rattle the wallpaper and shoot pulp out of the moldy folds. The rhythm grinds into her and hurts and she knows it’s a dream but the dream knows her too and it is mocking her, picking raw every memory like stubborn strings of meat that cling to the bone, lunging, snapping, biting, sucking, pinning her down, pinning her in here with it, laughing, laughing.

 

Dana woke wet and sucked in air so hard her lungs swelled. She wiped sweat from her eyes and swallowed. The walls of her throat were like sandpaper. It took her a second to realize the banging from her dream had followed her. Someone was knocking on her door. Her watch read 8:15. She’d slept barely three hours. She swung her feet onto the floor and threw a flannel shirt on over her tank top. She peered through the door’s diamond window. On the other side was the girl she’d shared a cigarette with a couple nights ago. She looked antsy. Dana opened the door.  
“Hey.” Her voice was hoarse. “Beverly right?”  
“Yeah,” she said.  
“What can I do for you?”  
Beverly eyed her nervously.  
“Please tell me you didn’t wake me up for a cigarette.”  
She shook her head.  
Dana waited. “So…what’s up? You ok?”  
“I’m fine,” Beverly said, still hesitating.  
Annoyed, Dana narrowed her eyes at the girl. “I’m sorry do you need something or-”  
“You drive that yellow hatchback right?”  
“Yeah,” Dana said slowly.  
“The Gremlin?”  
Dread pooled in her guts. “Yeah...why?”  
Beverly winced a little and said, “I think—I think someone messed with it.”  
“What do you mean?” Dana felt dumb asking. A sick feeling told her she already knew. Her boots were by the door and she jammed her feet into them, rushing past Beverly and mounting the stairs. Beverly’s light steps were right behind. When she reached the second floor platform she leaned over the railing and caught a glimpse of the Gremlin. “Shit!” she yelled, and hurried the rest of the way down. ‘DIE CUNT,’ was the first thing she read. It was spray painted in sloppy black script across the hood. She discovered more as she circled it. ‘Fucking Whore,’ spanned the left side and ‘Dike’ marked the back, half of the letters spilling over onto the rear window. The passenger side was littered with slurs: ‘Slut,’ ‘Bitch,’ ‘Prick-tease.’ All four tires were flat, wide gashes carved into their rubber flesh.  
She tilted her head back until the sun blinded her and screamed at the top of her lungs. “Fuck! Goddamnit mother FUCK!” She paced for a second. When the adrenaline died down a bit she took a step back, stared at her desecrated car. Her eyes welled but she coaxed the moisture back in.  
Beverly approached timidly, coming up to stand beside her. “Are you ok?” she asked.  
Dana took a deep breath and exhaled. She shook her head. “Those fucking assholes.”  
“You know who did this?” Beverly asked.  
“Yeah I know.”  
“You should go to the police.”  
Dana sighed.  
“Well, are you gonna?”  
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” Dana caught the harshness in her voice and corrected it. “I have issues with cops.”  
“How come?”  
“Because most of them are assholes,” she spat. “Fuck!” She slammed her fist down on the hot roof of her car.  
“Can I do anything?” Beverly asked meekly.  
Dana turned to her, her face softening. “No. But thanks for telling me. It would have been really shitty if I’d just found it like this.” She laughed bitterly. “Boys suck. You know that right?”  
Beverly shrugged. “Some boys are alright.” Her cheeks and the tops of her ears glowed rosy.  
“Nah they’re all shit.” She glanced down at her bare legs. “I should probably put some clothes on, huh?” She rubbed the remaining sleep from her eyes. “I’m losing it.”  
“Join the club,” Beverly said, and the seriousness of her tone caught Dana off guard. She studied the girl and caught a discernable glimpse of fear in her eyes.  
“What you doing right now?”  
“Why?”  
“Well, because I’ve had a rough week, and I just feel like…I need to eat pancakes. Do you wanna eat pancakes with me?”  
Beverly nodded.  
“Cool.” 

The pancakes came out round and fluffy. Dana didn’t cook much but pancakes were easy to make well. She set a towering stack of them down in front of Beverly and smiled a little at her delight. She grabbed a beer from the fridge for herself, not bothering to hide her alcoholism; she was too tired to care. Beverly watched as she took a sip.  
Dana shrugged. “You can have one if you want. Just drink it slow, you’re so tiny. And don’t tell your dad.”  
“Are you kidding?” Beverly said, and rose quietly. She took a bottle of beer from the fridge and searched for an opener.  
“I’ll do it.” Beverly handed her the bottle and watched her take a Bic lighter, turn it around, and wedge it in between the glass and metal cap. She pushed and the cap popped with satisfying force. Dana offered the beer back and Beverly took a timid sip. She’d sneaked sips from her father’s open cans before but had never been given one of her own. “Jesus,” Dana. “I’m a terrible influence, I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be. I like that you treat me like a person, not just a kid.”  
Dana winced. “Yeah but you are a kid though. I mean don’t get me wrong you seem mature as hell. But you’re still a kid.”  
“Don’t remind me.”  
“What’s so bad about it? It’s kinda cool, right? At the very least you don’t have to deal with this kinda shit.” She gestured out the window at her car.  
“There’s plenty of other shit though.” She peered down the rim of her bottle and sloshed the beer inside it.  
“Anything you wanna talk about?”  
Beverly shrugged. Took a sip.  
“School?”  
“It’s summer.”  
“Right.” Dummy, she thought. At her core she knew what it was. She had a strong feeling at least. She knew what shame looked like in a young girl’s eyes. Growing up she’d seen it daily in her own reflection. It didn’t read lucid until she was around Beverly’s age, fourteen or so. She wasn’t sure how to breach the subject though. She decided to tip toe, just scratch the surface. “How’s things with your dad?” Beverly’s eyed her plate. Her grip tightened on the fork and she squeezed. “You know I used to live with my dad too,” she Dana. “Til I was 16.”  
“What happened?” Beverly asked, trying to sound aloof.  
“He died.”  
Beverly’s eyes widened. “How?”  
“He was selling drugs. And doing drugs. He did too much. He died.”  
“I’m sorry.” She took a cautious nibble of pancake. “What’d you do then?”  
“After he died?”  
She nodded.  
“I spent some time with different people. When I was 18 I moved in here.”  
Both were quiet for a second. Beverly sipped beer and picked at her pancakes.  
“I know what it’s like to have a shitty dad.” Dana went on. “It sucks.” Beverly said nothing. The awkwardness was rough but she continued, despite it. “And if you ever need—or want—someone to talk to about it, or anything, for that matter, you can—”  
“He hurts me.” Her head was hung so low her chin was practically in her plate. “Sometimes.”  
Dana leaned down, tried to make eye contact. “He hits you?”  
When she spoke Beverly’s voice was so small and hollow it was barely audible. “Among other things.”  
Dana winced and tired to hide it. “You tell anyone else?”  
She shrugged. “My aunt once. Kinda.”  
“What’d she say?”  
Another shrug. Another sip. “She said that if I needed, I could go stay with her.”  
“I mean, you gotta go right? You gotta get the fuck away from him.”  
“He’s my dad.”  
“That doesn’t mean shit.” Dana’s voice rose. “You don’t owe him anything, ok? You deserve to feel safe, and respected in your home and your dad is not exempt from treating you like a person just because you share blood. That’s bullshit!” Beverly stared, startled. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I just know that it’s no way to live. You deserve better, you deserve so much better. If you want me to go with you—to the cops—”  
“I thought you were afraid of cops,” Beverly said.  
“I’m not afraid. And, this is different.”  
“How? How is it different? If I deserve better, don’t you? You’re just gonna let this asshole get away with what he did to your car?”  
“That’s just a car. This is your life-”  
Beverly shook her head coolly, shrugging Dana’s words as she stood. “I have to go.” She walked to the door and opened it. “Thanks for the pancakes.” When Dana found her voice the door was ajar and Beverly was gone. She went to the fridge, opened another beer, and tried to remember where she’d stashed her bike pump. It was a good two miles to the police station. And she had no intention of walking.


	5. Me Gusta Ser Una Zorra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5! Named after a VulpeSS song that literally translates to "I like to be a slut." They're an all-girl band from Spain and they're fucking great :)  
> TW: This chapter gives a rather graphic depiction of Dana's brief experience as sex worker. There is also an implied assault that occurs at the end of the chapter. This chapter mostly serves as backstory and will be necessary for understanding Dana's past as well as future interactions she will have certain characters.

At sixteen Dana found her dad’s body after school, slouched over the kitchen table, foamy mouth leaking liquid, rubber chord wound tight around his forearm. Since there were no blood relatives to claim her she spent a couple years bouncing around foster homes. People with almost as little as she had would put her up in exchange for skimpy government checks. She graduated early and spent a while working counter at the local butcher, cleaning gutters, mowing lawns, odd jobs mostly. The money wasn’t great though. Truly all she wanted was her own place; no one to answer to but herself, no line for the bathroom, no need to squirrel away her money in the toes of her shoes to keep it from disappearing, no leering father figures or disturbed foster siblings. What she needed was $325 for the first months rent on the little studio she’d found. She wasn’t worried about furniture or food or utilities. If she could just make enough to get her foot in the door she could figure the rest out as she went. She was a week shy of 18 and $85 short. If she got the money by then she could be on her own by her birthday. She knew no amount of busing tables and hedge trimming would yield that that much cash fast. And she wasn’t about to tread water for another six months trying to save, knowing full well all her money could vanish in the mean time. But she had an idea.  
The night before her birthday she put on neon red lipstick and some fishnet tights she found in her foster mother’s dresser. She took one of her dresses too. It might have been a slip. Dana wasn’t really sure. She walked down to the far south side of town. There was a motel at the end of Hampton Street called The Sea Breeze where she knew she could find what she needed. She’d never been with anyone before. But her body wasn’t particularly precious to her and it seemed a pretty measly price to pay for independence.  
When she showed up a few of the veteran girls gave her a hard time but she assured them it was a one-time thing, a fluke, that she wouldn’t be back. They eased off a bit but kept wary of her. She got a room for $25 and waited. Smoked and waited. Waited and smoked. Men came and went. “You wanna party?” she asked. “You wanna party?” The words felt stupid leaving her lips, clunky and cliché, not like the other girls. She quickly came to realize that no one wanted to pay $80, even for pretty jail bait, when they could pay $50 or even $20 to get their rocks of with someone a bit more seasoned. She watched women lead grinning men into their rooms with bizarre jealousy. At midnight she wished herself happy birthday and gave up. As she turned to leave a woman approached her, scuffed heels clack-clacking the cement.  
“You need some help sweet pea?” she asked, cigarette lodged in her lips.  
Dana nodded.  
“How much you charging?”  
“$80.00.”  
“Jesus girl. For them prices you better have Velcro between your legs and a set of solid gold titties.”  
Dana shrugged.  
“You need money real bad?”  
She nodded.  
“Tell you what. You hang out for a little while longer and I’ll see what kinda action I can cook up for ya. Name’s Didi by the way.”  
It didn’t take her long. Ten minutes later she returned. “I got you a good one honey,” she said triumphantly. “Passing through on his way to Portland. He’s willing to pay $100 if he can put it in your ass. You give me $20 up front and he’s all yours.”  
The reality of what she’d agreed to didn’t dawn on her until they were in her room with the door closed. It smelled like mold and stale cigarettes. The floral wallpaper was faded and flaking in spots. Little piles of asbestos snow dotted the carpet. He was in his late 40s, hairy, and smelled like pepperoni. “I’m Jeff,” he said. She told him she needed the money first and he held out a wad of bills. He put on a rubber. She got into bed. She expected it to hurt but when he entered her it was like an axe splitting wood. The first couple minutes were excruciating. Then it got a little easier. She tried to turn off her brain to what was happening, focus on anything and everything else. The crumbs in the sheets, the smoky smell of the pillow cases, a spot on the wall where the paper split wide and something black had started to grow. She counted the daisies on the curtains and the cracks in the ceiling. Her eyes always drew her back to that spot of peeling paper though. They could almost make out different shapes in its dark center. She let it draw her in, let it talk to her. She got lost in it, felt it pull on her chest, drawing her out of herself, out and into the blackness of that space, into the moldy crevice and somewhere deeper and darker still. It whispered and she strained to hear the voices inside.  
She didn’t know how long it went on but she knew when it was over. He made a few noises and withdrew. He said something and she didn’t hear it. She went to the bathroom and cleaned herself up, alarmed at first by the blood in the toilet but there wasn’t very much. She was sliding the fishnets back on her legs, the wad of cash stashed safely in her bra. She’d done it, she thought. She was home free. As she stood and looked around for her shoes she started to hear noises coming from outside, voices. Men’s voices loud and low, women’s voices, yelling, screeching, swearing. The sound of fists pounding wood. And then the pounding was on her door, hard, deliberate knocks that shook the chain on the lock. Jeff peeked through the curtains. “Oh shit,” he said. “Shit.” More banging.  
She was sitting on the bed when they came in. There were two of them, clad in gray uniforms, faces stern. They took Jeff away first, put handcuffs on him and threw him in the back of a squad car. They asked her how old she was.  
She told them she was eighteen, today.  
“Happy birthday,” one of them said as he handcuffed her.  
They led her to a car but were stopped by a third cop. His thin lips twitched and his voice was like pumice on her eardrums when he said “I’ll take her in.”  
He had her sit up front next to him.  
“What’s your name?” he asked, eyes on the road.  
Dana, she told him.  
“Dana,” he repeated. “Well Dana, you’ve really managed to screw yourself here. You see as of today you’re a legal adult. Which means you can be charged, as an adult, for prostitution and tax evasion. Legally there’s nothing stopping a federal court system from charging you with those crimes. That’ll mean some hefty fines for you, maybe jail time.”  
She swallowed.  
“Or…”  
Or?  
He licked his lips. “Or you and me can work this out right here and now, just the two of us.”  
She asked him what he meant.  
He slowed to a stop, pulling into an empty parking lot. It was almost four and Derry’s streets were deserted. He fumbled for the handcuff keys on his belt. “I mean,” he began, taking one of her wrists in his dry hands. “that I’m willing put this whole matter to rest. You’re a young girl with your whole life ahead of you. I feel for you. I really do.” The handcuffs clicked and Dana rubbed her sore joints. “I’ll forget all about this incident tonight. Even let you keep that money you got tucked in your underwear.”  
Dana felt her ears redden and swell with heat.  
“All you gotta do,” he put his arm around her, dry finger tips trailed lines on her shoulder. “is give me a little something in return.” With his left hand he undid his belt. Popped the button. Unzipped.  
“I’m offering you a pass.” He continued, still swirling his fingers on her shoulder. “All I’m asking for is a little sample of what you’re selling. Now that’s fair, isn’t it?”  
He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t let her finish saying no. His hand dug in his pants and emerged with it. Bulbous, red, already hard. He leaned into her, smelled her neck. His breath was hot. “You got such a pretty mouth,” he whispered. Then his hand was on the back of her head, pushing, gentle but insistent. “That a girl,” he whispered. “That a girl.”


	6. Man Under My Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter six folks. Dana attempts to prove to Beverly, and herself, that she is capable of facing her fears. Chapter title from a song by The Nixe, it seemed fitting for this one. Enjoy!

She stood outside the station. Pancakes and beer spun sour in her stomach as she stared at the square, brick building. Why? Why was she here? What was she trying to prove by coming? That she wasn’t afraid? Or that if she was, she was willing to face it? She wanted those pricks to pay for what they did to her car, sure. At the very least she’d like to see them shell out money for the repairs. Her dad was a mechanic before he started to deal drugs and she knew exactly how much a new paint job and four tires would set her back. Was it worth it though? The station was only one floor but it loomed over her just the same. Dana was sweaty from riding her bike and probably hadn’t drank enough water. The hair on her neck stood prickled and poised like cactus needles. This was a fear she could face though. It wasn’t ambiguous or vague. It wasn’t a shrill laugh in the dark, or a pair of glowing yellow eyes. It was real. It was here. And so was she. Maybe it would be ok. Maybe they’d even help. Maybe he wouldn’t be there.  
Dana locked her bike up and walked up the cement steps to the door. Her chain lock left her palms ruddy with metallic grime. She took a deep breath of hot summer air and didn’t release it until she was inside. It was cramped, too many desks, all of which were empty. The floor cleaner smelled like strong urine. She approached the front desk where a woman sat reading a magazine, frizzy blonde hair wound into a bun on top of her head like a pineapple. She popped pink gum.  
Dana cleared her throat. The woman looked up, looked back down, popped her gum some more.  
“Excuse me,” Dana said.  
She looked up, raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”  
“I’d like to talk to someone.”  
No response.  
“About a crime?”  
“Kinda crime?” Another pop.  
“Someone vandalized my car.”  
The woman perked up, leaned over in her chair. “Somebody smash it up?”  
“Spray paint. And slashed my tired.”  
“Hmm.” Obvious disappointment.  
“So…can you get someone?”  
She turned the page. “I’m kind of busy.”  
Dana sighed. “Yes, I see you’re very busy with your Cosmopolitan there. But seeing as you probably don’t get paid to read about Julia Roberts, how about you put that aside for just a second and get someone on duty that I can talk to?”  
She rolled her eyes. Dana grabbed the magazine from her hands before she could flip another page. The woman glared up at her, narrowing heavily lined eyes. “Look,” she said. “It’s 12:30 and everyone’s at lunch. You wanna wait you can have a sweat over there.” She snatched her Cosmo back and chewed grumpily.  
“They’re all at lunch? Every cop who works here is at lunch?”  
“Or they’re out on patrol or they’re busy,” she snapped.  
“So if I had, like, an actual emergency right now what would I do? Bike to Denny’s?”  
“You’d talk to me.” The voice came from behind. It was deep, sand papery. Coarse. Like gravel crunching under a boot. Dana recognized it before she could stop herself.  
The woman behind the desk stood, eyes darting nervously. “Sheriff, this girl was wanting to talk to someone about her car. I told her-”  
“I’ll talk to her.”  
“I told her-”  
“Marie,” he cut her off again. “Why don’t you make yourself useful, run down to Hansens’ and get me a black coffee.”  
She crossed quickly from behind the desk, magazine clenched between her fingers. As she passed Dana the voice said “Leave that.” She dropped the magazine without protest. “And spit that gum out. This ain’t a slumber party.” She brought a hand to her mouth and ejected the gum into it as she left.  
Dana hadn’t turned around. She considered just walking out. It’s what she wanted to do, what every atom in her body urged her to do. But leaving wouldn’t fix her car. Or make those kids pay for what they did. Or make her feel like a strong, adult woman who was capable of getting what she wanted. What she deserved. So instead, she turned, slowly, and looked at him. His face had aged since their last encounter. Wrinkles creased deeper. His skin looked flimsier on the bone but still leathery, and he’d grown more of gut. She didn’t want to look into his eyes but she made herself do it anyway. They gleamed like lead marbles; shiny, dark. He studied her back, marble eyes rolling over her, sly hint of a smirk playing at his thin lips. “You look different. More…butch.” He snorted, gesturing lazily. “Changed your hair. Got a bunch of tattoos. Still pretty though,” he added, racking his tongue across his teeth.  
There was a sick flutter in her chest. “You gonna help me or what?”  
“All business huh?” he started, crossing the open room. “So, what is it you need from Derry’s finest?”  
Dana moved too, careful to keep distance between them. “Someone fucked up my car.”  
“And by that you mean…?”  
“They vandalized it. Some kids. Spray painted it, slashed my tires.”  
He raised an eyebrow. “Some kids did this? Bunch of kindergarteners tear up your car?”  
“High school kids,” she continued, annoyed. “probably 17. Four of them.”  
“You got any reason why these kids would wanna ‘fuck up’ your vehicle?” She caught a hint mockery in his tone.  
_Keep calm_ , she told herself. _He’s fucking with you._ “They were drunk. They tried to come into my bar after hours. I told them to leave. Guess they didn’t like that.”  
“ _Your_ bar?” More than a hint this time. “Or the bar where you work?” He was filling a cone cup with water from the cooler behind the desk. So nonchalant. It was infuriating.  
“Look, you know what I mean. I’m trying to report a crime. My car is wrecked, I want them to pay for the repairs.”  
He took a sip of water and sighed. “Can you describe these kids to me?”  
“Yes. There were four boys. Two skinny, one bigger kid, one with a blonde mullet.”  
“A mullet?” he asked, though he said it more like a statement.  
“Short in the front, long in the-”  
“I know what a damned mullet is.” His arm jerked and a little water jumped over the top of the cup. A vein in his forehead lurched forward and he clenched his jaw in anger.  
Dana froze, eying him warily. “His name was Henry I think. I don’t know the others’ names.”  
He snorted “You _think_?”  
“Yeah. I think.”  
“Let me ask you this,” he gulped the last of the water and crumpled the cup in his hand, tossing it into the trash. “You actually see these boys vandalize your car? You see it happen?”  
“No,” Dana paused. “But I’m sure it was them.”  
“You’re sure? She’s sure. Well, if you’re sure.” He snickered, shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  
“Something funny?” A splash of anger spiked Dana’s blood.  
“You come down here, making accusations that have absolutely no factual basis, yeah, that’s funny. You didn’t see these boys spray-paint your car, how can you know it was them doing it? Unless you got witnesses gonna back you up on your claims, what you got is a hunch. And that’s all you got.” He looked at her, upper lip drawn up into a sneer, and shook his head again. “Tell me this: why would these boys wanna mess up your car anyway? You fighting over the same girl?”  
She was so angry now she was trembling. Her heart beat was all bubbles, limbs hung numb. “That’s cute. But no, that’s not why. They came in drunk, asking for beer. I said no. I have a feeling they didn’t like being told ‘no’ by a woman.”  
“Ha, a ‘woman.’ Is that right? Now, when you say vandalized,” he said, changing the subject. “what exactly does that mean?”  
“I told you. Spray paint.”  
“Mhmm. They draw genitalia on your car? That it? Phallic symbols, stuff like that?” He had started advancing, slowly so she wouldn’t notice as much.  
Dana swallowed. Her throat was dry like his voice. She eyed the door behind him. She could leave. She could still just leave. What would she gain by staying? But her brain wouldn’t let her focus on anything but the words leaving her mouth, second by second.  
“No.”  
“They write bad words then? What kinda words they write?”  
“I’d rather not say.”  
“You’re accusing these boys of a crime I’m gonna need you to say.”  
She tried inhaling, didn’t get much air. Her voice was barely above a whisper now. That’s all she could muster. “Die cunt. Bitch. Dike.”  
“Whore?” he asked, taking another step towards her. “Just a shot in the dark.”  
Now adrenaline was making her decisions for her. “You’re not gonna do anything are you?” she asked sharply. “You think this is funny. Something to laugh about with your buddies over coffee and doughnuts. You know, I actually came here for help. You’re just gonna give me shit.”  
She waited for him to get mad. He didn’t. Instead, he smiled. A big smile, baring rusty teeth and tobacco-chew gums. “Golly. You sure said a _mouthful_.”  
Bile leapt up Dana’s throat. She swallowed it.  
He raised an eyebrow. “You been drinking today?” He began to circle. “Cause’ I’m sure you know it’s illegal for a bartender to go to work drunk.”  
She tried to swallow again. “I’m not drunk.”  
“The hell you aren’t. I can smell the booze in your sweat. Were you drinking last night? How much you have? You drive home after? Ever think maybe you wrecked your own damn car and you were just too shit-faced to remember?”  
The words seemed the wrong size and shape for her ears. “You’re not seriously implying I vandalized my own car.”  
“What I’m implying,” he continued. “is that people do crazy things when they’re drunk, maybe they don’t remember doing them. Or maybe they do. Maybe they do and they’re too goddamn embarrassed by their own recklessness that they feel they gotta pawn of their actions on someone else.”  
“I wasn’t drunk,” Dana spat. “I wasn’t drunk!”  
“But you were drinking.” He made chiding sounds with his tongue.  
She had nothing. No response. She was dizzy. Exhausted. He took another step. They were less than a foot apart.  
“Now what am I gonna do with you? Hmm?” He reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder, dry fingers scraping ever so slightly. “You know it breaks my heart to see a young girl go down a dark path.” He stroked her arm gently. “It truly does.” She couldn’t move. Her insides were on fire but her joints were locked up so tense and tight her muscles threatened to spasm. She felt the world around her crumble away, felt herself pulling up out of her body, leaving it behind, a dead shell she could observe from above. His hand slid up her shoulder, hooking under the sleeve of her t-shirt, slid her bra strap aside, crawled in further. She hated him. She hated herself.  
The door squeaked open and Marie, tan and frizzy in her acid wash skirt walked into the office with a Styrofoam cup and no gum, and no magazine and said “Here’s your coffee Sheriff.” Dana fell, heavily, back into her body. She jerked her arm away. She didn’t say another word, or wait for him to say one. She turned and left. She heard the door close. She felt sun on her head and the humidity as it seeped into her pores. She kept walking. Her bike was where she left it. She didn’t cry. She didn’t want to. Her hands rattled as she dug for the keys to her chain. _Sheriff Bowers_ , she thought. This time she’d remember his name.


	7. Don't Talk to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title song is by The Eyes and is the song that plays in my head when guys tell me to "smile more" lol  
> This one is relatively tame...enjoy it while it lasts ;)

She bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked half of it on her way home, walking her bike by the handlebars. The shaking hadn’t subsided but smoking helped. She mumbled as she walked, cursing under her breath. Cursing herself, cursing Derry. Her lungs burned and her throat felt raw. She kept smoking anyway. She stopped at the liquor store on the corner near her apartment and bought a fifth of Jose Cuervo. She wasn’t even thinking of taste. She wanted to be drunk. She wanted to be very drunk and sleep and not think about how her skin still itched where he had touched her, and not think about how she’d frozen in fear and let him touch her, let him talk to her like she was an incompetent child, little fallen fawn, and still and mute as he’d advanced. She could measure her anger towards him. It was red and real and part of her. What didn’t make sense was why she’d withdrawn up and out of herself when he’d advanced on her. She should have hit him, spat at him, screamed in his face, bared her teeth, barked, howled, threatened. Any reaction would have been better than clamming up, stiffening like a mannequin and letting him touch, giving him the control, the upper hand. And it wasn’t like the thought hadn’t crossed her mind as to what might have happened if Marie hadn’t returned when she did. Marie and her black coffee. _Thank you Marie,_ she thought, taking a drag so hard she coughed. Every second that tequila wasn’t in her blood she was in agony. Her brain replayed the events at the station on nauseating loop. Liquor would quiet it. Liquor and sleep.  
She didn’t bother locking her bike, shoving it into the bushes and letting it topple over. It wasn’t until she approached the steps, paper bag in hand, cigarette clamped between her lips, that she noticed there was someone standing, thier back leaned against the brick. She did a double take and looked at them. It was a boy, maybe thirteen. His thick glasses made his brown eyes look gigantic, dark hair side swept his freckled forehead. He stared at her through those massive lenses. Their eyes met. She eyed him curiously. He stared back, mouth ajar a little, eyebrows raised. Dana was in no mood to be gawked at.  
“The fuck you staring at?” she hissed.  
“Nothing,” he stammered.  
Dana narrowed her eyes at him. “Good.”  
She mounted the stairs, the sun beating hot, sizzling beams on the back of her neck. From behind her she heard the kid utter a stunned little “...fuck.” Her boots rattled the iron as she climbed to her floor. She could hear voices coming from Beverly’s apartment, shuffling footsteps nearing the door. It creaked open to reveal several boys, all about fourteen. They trudged out of the dim space, stopped abruptly upon seeing Dana, their bashful faces pink, eyes down cast. One of them carried a mop bucket, which he quickly tucked behind his back. Beverly emerged behind them. She looked flustered. “Oh, hey,” she said, her face brightening.  
Dana didn’t say anything, she gazed warily at the harem.  
“I stopped by earlier,” Beverly went on. “I knocked but you didn’t answer.”  
“Wasn’t home,” Dana said, shoving her key in the lock and twisting. She turned the nob and pushed it open with her shoulder. “Boys,” she said, nodding at them in acknowledgment. She didn’t mean for the door to slam but it did. And she had no emotional energy to feel guilt about being short with Beverly. She had nothing to say and nothing to give. She needed what little energy she could muster to call in to work. Tonight she didn’t care about obligation or money. All she cared about was shutting of her brain.  
She picked up the receiver and dialed. Terry answered. “Dana? You gonna be here soon? S’posed to open up in half an hour…”  
“I’m not gonna make it in tonight Terry,” she said as she picked at the plastic seal on the bottle of tequila.  
“You’re not coming in? At all? Why?”  
“I’m sick,” she lied.  
“You don’t sound sick…what’s going on?”  
“Look, I just can’t work tonight ok? It’s been a rough, rough week. I just don’t have it in me. Sorry.”  
The other end was quiet. Then Terry said, in a faint, little voice, “Harry’s not gonna like that.”  
Dana picked up a butter knife, jamming it through the plastic. Her head was swimming in anxiety, each prolonged human interaction a threat to her sanity. “Look,” she said. “For almost two years I’ve worked six days a week. I’ve never been late; I’ve never called in sick. I’ve worked weekends and holidays; I do the ordering, the inventory, maintenance, security, and I’m always the only bartender. I’ve never asked for a raise, benefits, or time off. So if Harry has a problem, tell him he can look for a new fucking bartender. Tonight I am staying home.” She hung up before Terry’s meek voice could play at her guilt.  
She poured herself two fingers of tequila and sank into the couch, cocooning herself in a blanket. The first glass didn’t do much to quiet her head so she immediately poured another. She drank quickly and refilled again. The half joint in the ashtray beckoned. She put on a record, Julie London, Lonely Girl, a crooning, ghostly voice that never failed to soothe her. She lit the joint and inhaled, rich smoke coiling through her insides. Another glass, another hit, and her angst settled into numb objectivity. She listened to Julie sing as the sun cast shadows through her blinds, thin slivers that swayed and bent in the breeze. Foggy thoughts congealed and fleshed out into connections and questions. She kept the joint pressed between her fingers and closed her eyes.  
It was her father that manifested first. All of her father. Her father making drinks, working on cars, cooking pancakes, cooking drugs, selling drugs, doing drugs, selling his car to buy drugs, selling their house to buy drugs, high, reaching for her, confused, too much junk in his system to realize what he was doing. It had been an accident, that one time it had happened. And he’d said he was sorry, so very sorry. The next day he was dead, dead with a needle wilting out of his gray vein. And she saw all these things like a little slide show flashing across her eyelids. She took another hit and she was in the hotel room. She was smelling it, and smelling him, Jeff, who paid her good money for her holes. She recalled the pain but didn’t relive it. She stared so intently at that black crevice in the wallpaper, littered with moldy, toxic powder, its depth a puzzle she’d never solve. The force of the fists on the cheap wood veneer, she felt their reverberation all through her bones. She saw Sargent Bowers, big man with leathery lips and low gut and dry hands. He talked to her like she was his daughter in the car, again at the station. He called her a girl, touched her like a woman, seemed to like it that way. Maybe all fathers were in love with their daughters, some better at hiding it. And then Beverly’s face was in her head, wise eyes, so sad though. So young to be so sad. They’d only just discovered each other, their connection strange. It was weird to feel so protective of a stranger. There was dread there too. It was scary to care. She wasn’t Beverly’s blood. She couldn’t do much. She could talk, she could make her pancakes and give her cigarettes. She wasn’t her sister. She wasn’t her mother. She wasn’t the law. The joint had gone out. She melted deeper into the couch. Thoughts and images in her mind slowed to a crawl. She laid her head back. The spinning room rocked her, her face buzzed fuzzy, ears warm. A picture of the boys from the bar danced into view. The boy. Henry. They must have known, he must have known that she wouldn’t give them anything to drink. They saw the closed sign, she was sure, but still they came in. She couldn’t stop herself from shivering, even wrapped in blanket. She could see him so clearly, lean arms, stringy with young muscle, cold, probing eyes that dug straight through, made her feel naked and afraid. Hungry Eyes. _That song was written by a man I bet,_ she thought dreamily. Men. So many men. All of them sick, greedy. Even Terry, maybe. For all she knew he went home after work every night and beat the shit out of his wife. She had no way of knowing. She had no way of knowing. She had no way of knowing. God she was afraid, so afraid all the time. She wasn’t tough. She wasn’t strong. The fear was the only real part of her existence. And she didn’t want them to see. Them. Them? Who? Her dead dad? Sheriff Bowers? A trashy teenager with a chip on his shoulder? She feared their judgment? Their wrath? No. Yes? Who? Who was it, really, that she feared? Maybe mostly herself. Her form, her body, the inherent vulnerability of her sex. But there was another factor. Another piece of the equation. As she drifted off, her mind found a subject upon which to rest. She fell asleep and dreamed of the fear she couldn’t explain. The noises she’d heard, taught rubber, screaming under pointed fingers, mallowy giggle. Yellow eyes glowing on a pale face. Eyes that knew her. Eyes that watched.


	8. Kerb Crawler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are gonna be pretty weird from here on out. The story gets kind of intense so I will continue to post warnings at the beginning of any chapters that might be triggering.  
> This chapter's title is a Aus Pairs song. Enjoy!

  
Dana woke to a sound she didn’t like. Her heartbeat jerked her from sleep, pulling her up by the chest, eyes darting to catch the black shape that scurried into the bathroom. The apartment was dark but she could see its movement. The door slammed behind it with enough force to shake the pictures on the wall and knock an empty beer bottle from the table. Behind the closed door the squeak came, shrill, sharp, rubber screams that drilled into her ears and quickened her pulse further. She glanced at the front door. It was locked, chain in place, deadbolt fastened. She scrambled to the windows and found them as she left them, open an inch or two, glass in tact, screens uncut. The sound came again. It didn’t make sense but there was no denying it. Someone was inside the apartment with her and she had no idea how they’d gotten in. Another slow screech from the bathroom. She wanted out of there. She wanted to run but turning her back to the bathroom to unlock the front door seemed even more daunting than investigating the sounds. Another shriek, and then a chorus of whispers that burned through the apartment like an electric surge. Her breathing was heavy. She crossed to the kitchen, grabbing a knife from the drawer and holding it out before herself as she approached the door. She took small, silent steps, ears poised. She grasped the doorknob, turned it slowly. The knife was steady in her hand. She held her breath, and pushed. In quick advance she swung the door open, flailing the knife wildly into the darkness. When it didn’t collide with anything she outstretched her other hand. Cold palms blindly groped for the light switch. Her breathing was so loud she couldn’t hear anything else. She found the switch, flicked it on, and scanned the bathroom. Her eyes landed on the shower curtain. She aimed the blade, took hold of the curtain, and pulled. Nothing. Shakily, she set down the knife. Swallowing dry spit, she turned on the faucet and submerged her hands. The cold water was grounding. She brought her face to the sink, splashed it a few times and wiped her eyes. As she reached for a towel, she felt another patch of moisture meet her skin. Not water though. It burned, like acid. Her skin sizzled as she jerked her hand away. The liquid dotted her flesh, first one droplet, then another, then another. She turned her arm to examine them, eyes squinted at the tiny smoke trails that rose from her flesh. The fluid was black, viscous like mucus. More drops fell. She followed their trajectory and realized, to her horror, that they were falling from the ceiling. Coldest dread clutched her; it filled her up and left room for nothing beyond immediate, absolute, terror. Slowly, she raised her head.  
The thing on the ceiling was black, shiny with plastic glaze. It was hairless, so sleek she could see her own terrified face reflected in its torso. Long arms, long legs, not quite human proportions, clung, writhing, by long pointed fingers and smooth, toeless feet. Its head was coated by the same shiny, latex skin. Zipper mouth open wide, drooling black, milk-thick acid. No ears or nose, just two hollow, frog-like eye sockets, wide and empty, filled with immeasurable, dark volume. It writhed and wriggled, leaving moldy gray smudges against the white popcorn plaster. When it stretched its mouth open wide all that came out were gurgles and a sick sort of rasping. It was laughing and its laughter was composed of a thousand of voices, children’s voices, dying. She could hear their screams as it tittered.  
Dana froze, too petrified to move, to breath. She felt tears on her cheeks and didn’t know when she’d started crying. It stared back at her, empty eyeholes aimed and gaping. Slowly, it pried a twitching hand from the ceiling. Its fingers outstretched as it reached for her, back arched like a startled cat. She watched the thing rear up and scream, spewing a clot of black tar. She dodged the jettison just barely, rolling her body out of the way as it blasted the wall, singeing it bare. Steam rose off the fresh burn as little embers continued to eat away at the wallpaper. Dana backed out the doorway as it tumbled down the wall, dripping over itself, bones snapping as it contorted.  
The shock of its movement lifted her paralysis and she turned and ran. She heard it gurgling behind her, the heavy force of it landing on the ground. She made it to the front door, grasped the chain and pulled. The thing was too quick, its sharp hand tightened around her ankle and pulled. Her ribs hit the floor first, then her chin. It dragged her to itself and she screamed with all the air in her lungs, screamed until she didn’t recognize her own voice. It flipped her on her back, mounting her, drippy knees squeezing her sides. Tacky hands clamped her wrists together, winding long, peaked fingers around them. It brought its face close to hers. She could smell the rotten spores growing in its bowels as it leaned over her, zippered mouth curling into a gummy smile. It unfurled a long, pale tongue, rough with divots and cankers, and licked the side of her face. Black ooze grazed her cheek and charred the wood floor beneath her. Dana screamed through her clenched jaw as it brought its glistening metal mouth to her ear. “Velcro between your legs” it whispered, wetly. Her eyes bulged in disbelief. It threw back its shiny head, wheezing, laughing hard, shrill guffaws. With its weight shifted Dana managed to tug her legs up to her chest. She kicked the thing with all her might, sending it sprawling backwards. She flew to her feet, yanked the chain lock, quaking hands fumbled with the deadbolt. She whipped her head around to gage its distance. But when she looked back the apartment was empty. The only traces of the creature were a long, black smear and singed floorboards. In it’s place, floated one lone red balloon with a white ribbon tail. Dana watched it drift across the room, following the slick, sludge trail. She moved, dodging its path. It popped as it collided with the door and the sharp sound reminded her to breath. A little pile of wet, white gunk rained down from inside of it. She took a few careful steps, craning her neck to glimpse its contents. Condoms. Clammy, damp, yellowed with use. Dana gagged. She sank to the floor and hugged her knees to her chin. _Velcro between your legs…_ Dana recycled the quote over and over. _How? How could it possibly have known that?_ She tucked herself further into the corner behind the couch, shaking.  
When a knock rattled the door she almost screamed again. She gathered herself from the floor, wiped tears and black sludge from her cheeks, and approached shakily. She peered through the window. Beverly, eyes wide with panic, stood on the other side. Dana had never been so relieved to see another person in her life, even one younger and smaller than she. She cracked the door and slid outside, shivering even though the summer night was warm.  
“I heard screaming,” Beverly said, eyes darting. “Are you ok?”  
Dana wanted to tell her. She wanted to tell someone. But it was wrong. Beverly was too young to be her sounding board. Too young to be her friend. It wasn’t fair to involve her in whatever this was. “Y-yeah. Just had a night terror. Happens sometimes. Sorry if I woke you.”  
Beverly looked at her warily. Then her expression shifted from one of skepticism to mournful concern. “You saw something, didn’t you?” By her tone it was more a statement than question.  
“W-what do you mean?”  
“You can tell me.”  
Dana shook her head. “I told you, nightmares. I just got some stuff I gotta work through, don’t worry about it ok?”  
“Dana…” Beverly said, her tone skeptical.  
“I’m fine, really. I don’t need you to check on me. Just go home.” She ducked back inside before Beverly could protest. The long, gritty trail of muck greeted her. It was still there, all still there. The pile of damp condoms by the doorway, surrounded by red rubber scraps. She half thought she’d remerge to find everything gone, no slime, no charred walls, no blackened ceiling. If she was crazy, then she was so crazy that her hallucinations maintained themselves even when she wasn’t in the room to look at them. Not a good sign. But it was real. It felt so real. Beverly had seen the remnants of dark muck on her face. Then again, she supposed, if she was crazy enough to hallucinate a tar-coated gimp clinging to her ceiling, she could convince herself she’d had a conversation with Beverly easily enough. Her dad had talked to himself sometimes shortly before he ODed. She thought it was the drugs talking but now she wasn’t convinced. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe she was too. She winced. The slime’s sour smell was like battery acid. She needed to clean it up. First she crossed to her bed, rummaging under it for something. Her polaroid camera. She snapped pictures of the bathroom ceiling, the floor, the limp pile of used condoms, the wall where it had been burned. She stashed them all in her wallet. Security. If she ever felt brave enough she could show them to someone, ask them what they saw, gage her sanity by their reaction. She popped the cap off a beer. Who fucking cares, she thought. She cleaned, hauling bucket after putrid bucket outside and dumping it down the sewer grate on the corner. She washed and sanded down the wall where it had been burned. A lot of the paper came off with it. If I’m not crazy I’m sure as hell not getting my deposit back she thought bitterly. She had to stand on the sink to clean the ceiling, scrubbing so hard her arms ached by the time she was done. She put on a pair of rubber gloves to scoop the condoms into a plastic bag, tossed them in the dumpster outside. The sun was coming up and the sky glowed a pale, sickly gray. Another beer and she sat on her couch and weighed her options as logically as she could. _OK,_ she thought, _if I’m crazy then that’s it. I’ll probably just get crazier and crazier until I can’t take it anymore and kill myself. I don’t have insurance so therapy is out. And I’d rather die than spend the rest of my life in a psych ward anyway. So I guess that problem will take care of itself. If I’m not crazy…_ she paused, taking a moment to prepare herself for the alternative. _If I’m not crazy…then someone, something, got into my apartment, through locked doors and windows, something that knows me, my history, and my fears, maybe better than I do. For all I know could be back any second, follow me anywhere I go, and kill me whenever it decides it’s done with me. It’s a nightmare, but it’s more than that. It’s my nightmare. Or at least it knows how to be._  
She sat quietly, mulling things over. She took another sip. _Fuck. I hope to god I’m crazy._


	9. Pretend You're Not Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dana monitors her sanity and distracts herself.  
> title of a song by Phobia, seemed fitting :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just worked 14 hours. Now I'm too awake to sleep, which is what my body needs lol so here's a couple more chapters. Enjoy! I welcome comments, feedback, you name it!

  
The next day passed dryly. Dana stayed sharp, keenly monitoring herself for any possible lapses in sanity through the hours. She flushed her weed but couldn’t bring herself to dump all the alcohol she had in the apartment. She ditched most of it but kept the tequila, tucking it into the way back of the cabinet under the kitchen sink. She went to work, made drinks, apologized to Terry for her diatribe. He shrugged, flaccid limbs flailing, and said “Harry closed, kinda nice to have an extra night off.” His dopey smile was reassuring. She skipped her customary post-work Negroni but it was hard; bottles of gin and Campari beckoned from dusty shelves. Sweet vermouth glittered like topaz under the neon sign’s rose glow. She biked home. The summer air was cooler than it had been and felt good as it rushed past her face.  
She passed Beverly’s door. Guilt stung her. The last couple times she’d seen her she’d been cold. First in front of her friends, anxious to get inside after her encounter at the police station. Later Beverly tried to come to her aid and was similarly dismissed. The more Dana reflected on their last interaction the worse she felt. She hovered by Beverly’s door for a moment, trying to decide how she could make it up to her. It was too late to bother her now, she doubted very much her father would take kindly to that. But she’d come up with something.  
Inside her anxiety rose. She did a quick sweep of the apartment, checking the walls and ceiling in the bathroom, behind the couch, under the bed. It felt childish. She wanted a drink bad but managed to brush off the craving. She knew that without alcohol she’d have a hard time sleeping. That gave her an excuse to do something productive. She decided to make Beverly a tape. She wasn’t sure what she listened to but she knew she wanted the tape to be comprised entirely of female artists. She started pulling records, rifling through boxes of tapes, compiling stacks of possible material. She noted the order, taking the start and finish of each song into account. When she’d finished recording she selected a box for the tape, copying out a pristine track list on the insert. She decorated the sleeve with with some art supplies she kept tucked under her bed. Finally, she wrote a little note. It was short, reading only: _Sorry if I was an asshole earlier._ I didn’t mean to be. When she finished it was shortly after six in the morning and the sun was peaking prudently through pearly clouds. At six thirty Dana heard someone leave next door, and watched from her window as Beverly’s father sauntered down the steps to his truck. She waited until it was out of sight to slip the tape into Beverly’s mailbox, wary of his volatility. Once it was stashed Dana headed back inside. She stretched out on the couch. Dusty green velvet cooled her bare legs, and she promptly fell asleep.  
It had been a very long time since Dana woke without even the slightest trace of a hangover. It was odd to feel so refreshed. She checked her watch. 2:00 pm. Soon she’d have to leave for work. She rose and rifled through her dresser for something to wear. It had been awhile since she’d done laundry, she realized, as she rummaged through the hamper. She extracted wadded clothing, sniffed it, deemed it unacceptable and tossed it back in. Her cut-offs were ripe with sweaty summer scent. Her t shirts weren’t much better. No time to do a load before work either. She knew of at least one item that would be clean though. Hanging on a hook under her coat and scarf and was the only dress she owned. Sleevless, black, cotton. Dana bought for her dad’s funeral and hadn’t worn it since. She slid it carefully over her head. She’d grown since she last wore it. It was shorter, almost too short to wear, and clung to curves less pronounced at sixteen. She felt very unlike herself in it, and stared longingly at the hamper stuffed to the brim with her favorite band t shirts, tattered denim, floppy flannel. _At least it doesn’t stink,_ she thought, resolving to do a load when she got home. She laced up her boots, tossed her wallet into her bag and grabbed her keys off the table.  
It was a humid day, moist air hovered dense and low. The sun burned vehemently through wispy clouds, shooting vitamin D beams into Dana’s pale skin. She didn’t notice Beverly until she reached the stairs, the girl’s petite form sat hunched on the second step. She she turned when she heard Dana approaching.  
“Hey,” Dana said, walking down to her.  
“Hey,” she returned.  
“Can I sit?”  
Beverly nodded.  
Dana took a seat on the step above. They were both quiet, the silence between them sharp and awkward. Dana breached it first. “Sorry.”  
“For what?” Beverly asked, dryly.  
“For being a dick.”  
Her voice softened. “You weren’t a dick.”  
“I didn’t mean to be.”  
“You weren’t.”  
“Kinda was.”  
“Kinda.”  
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” She looked down at the scuffs on her boots.  
“I liked the tape,” Beverly said quietly.  
Dana smiled. “Good.”  
“I really liked the 9th song, what’s it called—Girl on the Run.”  
“Honey Bane. You got good taste, they’re rad.”  
Beverly, pleased by the compliment, moved up a step, planting herself next to Dana and looking at her semi-expectantly. Dana dug through her bag for cigarettes. She squished the crinkly paper between her fingers, feeling around for its contents. “Only got one,” she said as she clamped it between her teeth and extracted it. “I’ll split it with you.”  
They sat, passed the cigarette back and forth, chatting a little through scattered, light topics. It was clear that something was nagging at Beverly, her face was dim with worry that obscured her smile, genuine though it was. Dana steered the conversation, hoping to lift her spirits.  
“So those your friends I saw here the other day?”  
“Yeah. I guess so,” Beverly replied, brightening.  
“You know them from school?”  
“Kind of.”  
“What are they like?”  
“Stan’s Jewish. He’s kinda prissy, but nice. Eddie’s fragile, his mom says he’s sick but I think she just wants to keep him close. Richie, the one with the glasses, is pretty obnoxious. He’s ok though, once you get to know him a little. Ben’s new. He’s smart, kinda shy. There’s another kid too, we just met him. His name’s Mike. And Bill, well, he’s been through a lot. You know.”  
Dana’s eyes widened. “Is that the Denborough kid? George Denborough’s brother?”  
She nodded.  
“Jesus. How’s he doing?”  
Beverly shrugged. “Good as can be expected I guess.” Her cheeks flushed coral, ears a deeper fuchsia that almost matched her hair.  
Dana beamed, slyly. “Which one you crushin’ on?”  
“What! No! I mean none of them, that’s—that’s just gross.”  
“Ok, my mistake.”  
“They’re just friends.”  
“Forget I said anything.”  
Beverly blushed relentlessly. “So,” she began, changing the subject as rapidly as she could. “what’s been up with you lately?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Night terrors?” She eyed Dana accusingly.  
“I’ve just been going through some things. That’s all.” She paused, unsure how to phrase. She didn’t want to scare the girl, or be completely candid about the possible lapse in her sanity.  
“Things have been kind of weird lately,” she said at last. Vague, not a lie.  
“Weird how?” Beverly asked. The rosiness in her face had vanished, her freckles stark red against pale cheeks.  
“You know how I said if you wanted to go to the cops about your dad, I’d go with you?”  
Beverly nodded.  
“I was thinking, maybe you should leave them out of it.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I went to see them yesterday, about my car. And it didn’t go well.”  
“What do you mean? They wouldn’t help you?”  
“That’s putting it nicely. Cops are assholes, sure, but the ones here—they’re worse. I don’t think they’d help you. They might even make things harder.”  
Beverly didn’t say anything. Her head drooped. She cast her eyes down, gaze following the steps to the bottom.  
“That’s not to say,” Dana continued. “that I won’t still help, any way I can. So just tell me, if and when, there’s anything I can do. Anything you want me to do, I don’t wanna charge in all gung-ho if that’s not what you want. Just let me know.” She knew it wasn’t fair to make promises to the kid, not with so many question marks looming over her. But she couldn’t leave her to fend for herself either.  
For the first time during the conversation Beverly met Dana’s eyes with her own. “Thanks,” she said.  
Dana smiled in response.  
“Shit I gotta go. I’m gonna be late for work.” She rose and swung her bag across her chest.  
“Do you care if I-”  
“You can finish it.”


	10. Don't Push Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite chapters. Good ole' fashioned confrontation!  
> Chapter title named after a Flirt song. Enjoy and good night finally! <3

The first blast of air reminded Dana why she didn’t wear dresses. She gave in and walked her bike. She could ride on the way home; no one would be out at five am to see her skirt blow up. She stayed alert as she walked, paid close attention to her surroundings, keyed in to notice any abstractions her brain might invent. It appeared to be a normal Derry day. Kids were out riding bikes and skate boards, sundress-clad girls strolled in packed clusters giggling about whatever. Parents pushed fat babies in strollers, jocks jogged tugging girthy dogs. The trees fluttered lazily in the warm breeze. There were no balloons, no condom rain, no gurgling gimps. Dana passed the ice cream shop, the post office, the plant nursery. She tuned out the frenzy of paranoia that buzzed in her brain as best she could, tried to enjoy the walk. She reached into her bag for a cigarette only to remember she’d shared her last one with Beverly. Luckily Center Street Drug was just across from the bar.  
Mrs. Keene was working today. She hated Dana and made no secret of it, always glared at her through the bifocals that rested on the tip of her blotchy nose.  
“Pack of Parliaments,” Dana said.  
Mrs. Keene glared. “One moment.”  
Dana waited with feigned patience. She wanted a cigarette bad. Behind her familiar voices caught her attention, kids’ voices. She peered over her shoulder to see a few of the boys that had been in Beverly’s apartment. One was the one who had ogled her outside her building, thick glasses that he had to keep pushing back onto the bridge of his nose, shaggy brown hair damp with sweat, mouth slightly agape like a guppy. The other boy was smaller, squirrely in his movements, large dark eyes darting anxiously. His speech was one long stream of frantic exclamations. She recognized the third boy as Bill Denborough, gangly, blue-eyed. A tragic aura hovered about him like a little rain cloud. They were buying candy and having a heated argument about what to get. They stopped when they noticed her. She felt odd, like she had something to tell them, something urgent, but she wasn’t sure what it was. She opened her mouth to speak and said nothing. They stared back at her with wide eyes. Mrs. Keene slapped a meaty fist on the veneer and hissed “Miss? Miss! You gonna pay me?”  
Dana turned back to her, shoving bills across the counter. She snatched the cigarettes and pushed the door open.  
Outside the sun didn’t feel good anymore. It was sharp, hot, oppressive after the air-conditioned interior. And the humidity felt twice as heavy. She turned and walked back to her bike, finding her keys and snapping them into the padlock. She dug deep into her bag for a lighter, balancing the bike against her hip. The smoldering sun cooked her crispy as she walked towards the crosswalk. She didn’t notice the parked electric blue Trans Am or the figures that leaned up against it until one of them called out at her “Nice ride, dike!”  
She flashed her head in the direction of the voice and there they were. The big boy sat in the driver’s seat of the Trans Am, door open, thick fingers wrapped around an open beer. The bleach blonde leaned his thin arms on the hood while coyote ugly stood at the left passenger door, grinning that same toothy grin from ear to ear, dark hair obscuring his face. And Henry, good ole’ Henry, leaned against the back of the car, his foot propped up on the bumper, cigarette pinched between his fingers. That strange smile played at his lips, gray eyes gleaming as he watched her, tried to gage her reaction. From the corner of her eye Dana saw Beverly’s friends come outside and freeze at the sight of them, too afraid even to retrieve their bikes.  
Everything about Henry’s existence infuriated her in that moment. She could write the other boys off as spectators, sheep, too weak to rebel against their dictator. Henry was different. He had power and he knew it. He was used to having it. He was used to taking it. Dana was deeply afraid of the man he would grow into. But for now he was no man. He was a boy, a spoiled little boy. And she wasn’t about to let him take any more from her. She couldn’t hurt a cop, or her dead dad, or a hallucination. But she could hurt this kid.  
The wet heat fueled her anger. She let her bike tip over, tore her bag from her shoulder. She walked up to Henry and his flock, thick boots pummeling the ground with every step. As she approached he stood, took his foot off the bumper, flicked his cigarette. He eyed her with cold curiosity. His cronies were still chuckling from his clever comment. Dana ignored them. They didn’t matter. Her hand balled into a fist and she didn’t hesitate. She planted her left foot square between his legs, rotated her hips to get good momentum, and swung. Her fist collided with his jaw and the ‘thwack’ it made sent echoes rippling through the paved lot. She hit him with everything she had and the force was enough to send his twisted torso sprawling over the trunk of the Trans Am. The pain in her hand was sweeter than anything she’d ever felt: hot, excited, spirals of agony that curled her fingers and tingled their tips. His friends went white, their mouths gaped, eyes bulged as they rushed to him. From behind her Dana heard a faint “Holy shit,” from one of the boys outside the drug store. Henry remained bent over the trunk, one hand on the car to steady himself, the other pressed to his lip. He raised himself, looked at his hand and the blood in it. More streamed out of the gash she’d made; his lip had already begun to swell. When his eyes met hers they were unnervingly calm, the way the sky quiets before a storm. His voice was low when he spoke. “Thought you were a little wild,” he began, dipping his hand into the pocket of his jeans. “but you must have a real death wish.” He jerked his hand out fast, gripped something silver. A blade shot from the center of his fingers. Coyote boy’s face lit with excitement; he licked his lips.  
Henry took a few slow steps towards her but the big boy intervened, taking his arm lightly.  
“Henry, come on man-”  
“No,” Dana said loudly, taking another step towards him. “no let him go. Why don’t you just let him go? He’s not gonna do anything. He’s a coward. He’s a fucking _coward_.”  
She could see his rage swell like it had that night at the bar. “I swear to god,” he said gravely.  
“What? _What_?” she demanded. She cocked her head, challenging him.  
“I'll fucking cut you open, cunt.”  
“Oh just shut up,” Dana spat. “You are so full of shit! You know what you are? You’re a child, you’re a fucking child. Driving around in your rich buddy’s car being a fucking asshole because—because why? You’re pissed off? You’re bored? Well guess what pencil dick: everyone’s pissed off, everyone’s bored! I mean, fuck you—who even _are_ you? You’re not special. You’re not scary. You’re a joke, you’re a pathetic, sad fucking joke. And I’m over it.” She stared straight, funneling anger through her pupils, into his. His face was a mixture of shock and confusion. His shoulders sagged, knife hung at his side tucked between limp fingers. He looked stupid holding it, little and ashamed.  
She advanced. He took a half step back, winced a little. “I want you and your shitty friends to stay away from my work—my car—just stay the fuck away from me. Cause I’m done with your shit.” He wouldn’t look her in the face, startled by the intimacy of their proximity, of her glistening green eyes invading his own. It could have been anger that made his lip tremble, Dana wasn’t sure. To a casual observer, though, it looked as though Henry was going to cry. She took a moment to meet the eyes of each of the other boys before she turned, picked up her bike and bag, and crossed the street. She didn’t look back.


	11. After Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of two very intense chapters.  
> TW: sexual assault/violence.   
> Title of this chapter is a Flowers' song, dark, atmospheric, good stuff. Give em' a listen :)

The bar was busy that night. Dana actually enjoyed it. Like a seasoned shepherd she tended her drunk, screechy flock. Their money swarmed her pockets. By the time last call crept up she’d taken in over $200 in tips. She’d punched her enemy, called him on his idiocy, and made a killing to at her job. Today was a good day.   
She crossed back to the kitchen, thrust a wad of cash in Terry’s scurvy face.   
“Damn,” he croaked. “you musta done ok tonight.”  
Dana grinned at him. “Yeah, and I still feel bad for yelling at you over the phone.”  
He counted the money carefully. “For seventy-five bucks you can yell at me any time you want!” He chuckled, tucking the money into the breast pocket of his greasy shirt. “You got more to do out here? I can stay and help if you want.”  
She considered the offer. A few nights ago she would have certainly taken him up on it. Tonight though, she was jazzed. She felt accomplished after the confrontation with Henry, stoked about all the money she’d made. If she asked Terry to stay she’d be regressing. Today had convinced herself that she could handle things. She wanted to ride that feeling.  
“I’ll be good,” she said.  
“You sure?”   
“Yeah,” she said, confidently. “I am.”  
He lumbered long limbs past her, smiling warmly over his shoulder as he ducked out the front door. She locked up behind him.   
Once confronted with the empty bar she felt a tinge of uneasiness but it passed quickly. She went about her nightly duties, finished the rest of the dishes, cut fruit for the next day, circled the rag across the bar top, upturned chairs onto tables. Terry, bless his heart, had already taken out the trash.   
When she was done she gathered up her things, sneaking a longing look at the liquor on the top shelf. She wanted so badly to make herself a drink, sit and press the cold glass between her palms, stare down at the ruby pool inside, savor the sweet thickness. It wasn’t a good idea and she knew it. Besides, denying herself the vice felt oddly good. This meant no bar side cigarette either. No point in torturing herself.  
On her way out she paused by the back door. Her eyes pawed the doorway briefly, searched for the bat. Trusty bat. But trusty bat wasn’t there. Trusty bat was tucked into the front seat of her car where she’d left it the other night. The other night when she’d seen the eyes. Now there was no bat. Fuck it she thought. She didn’t need the bat. She’d been feeling good all night and it was a short slip of a walk to her bike. She grabbed the bar keys, cold metal clenched between her fingers.   
Uneasiness bubbled in her guts but she hushed it. If she still felt freaked at home she could stay up, sit outside, smoke, bike around. These thoughts were comforting, and she used their solace as a shield. She walked out into the warm night; cicadas cooed and made the dewy air hum. She slid the key back into the lock, twisted until it clicked, turned to face her bike. She’d parked it tucked into the cove where the fenced lot dipped into the bushes. When she saw it her muscles tensed and breath locked in her throat. She felt as though she’d been plunged into an ice bath. Tethered to the handlebar by a thin white ribbon, was a large, red balloon, round and shiny as a candy apple. Dana walked to it on stiffly locked limbs. She reached out to touch it, see if it had mass, if she could feel its contours as clearly as she saw them. But as she raised her hand to it, the ribbon slipped and it began to drift silent around the side of the building where the parking lot curved. She had to follow it. She didn’t want to but she had to, drawn again in that dreamy way she didn’t like. She rushed to catch it. Rushed and wasn’t looking, wasn’t looking and didn’t notice, didn’t notice the form in front of her until she’d already collided with it.   
Hands tightened around her shoulders and she forgot the balloon, tugged away, tried to focus her eyes through the dark. A mouthful of gums and teeth grinned down at her, scrawny arms not quite not strong enough to hold her, she jerked free. Coyote Boy beamed, dark, shaggy hair smeared across his forehead, eyes bulged with excitement.   
“Where you goin’, huh?” he demanded, smiling wider.   
Dana squinted at him. “You? Jesus I was actually scared for a second.” She was still scared. She was very scared. “I thought I told you guys I didn’t want you coming around here.”  
His lips curled. He was beaming so big it looked painful. “We don’t take orders from dike bitches,” he croaked, swallowing laughter. “You don’t tell us what to do.” His leg was twitching; shoulders shook as though it took all his willpower to hold himself back.  
Dana tried to make her face look angry, tried to muddy the fear in her eyes so he wouldn’t see. The sudden confrontation was alarming but he seemed to be alone. She could take this kid if she had to. Behind him Dana noticed something blue and shiny glittering in the moonlight. The Trans Am. Her heart fell to her ankles. The other boys were scattered somewhere, and she knew with grim certainty why they’d come. Coyote Boy took a step towards her and she didn’t hesitate. She raised the keys and whipped them at his open mouth as hard as she could. The metal cracked his canines and he screamed. Tooth shards rattled as they showered the pavement. He doubled over and she spun and ran, made a B-line around the corner. She was caught again, this time in a bear hug. Lanky limbs wound around her, smashing her arms to her waist, lifting her off her feet. She thrashed like a fish on the lure but the slimy bleach blonde was stronger than he looked. He held her and laughed.   
“She got you good Pat!” he called to the other boy. He was wearing a tank top and Dana could see tiny peach fuzz hairs sprout from his arms. _Just like biting a peach_ she thought as she lunged. Her teeth crunched his flesh and he dropped her. She landed on her knee, pain singing through her skin and into the muscle and bone beneath but she hopped up quick as she could, drew her foot back and brought the toe of her boot into the crotch of his light-wash jeans. He buckled, howled, crumbled like dry sand. She skirted around him, lunged for the door. Her hands shook so hard she could barely bring them to the lock. The boy’s blood was in her mouth, it coated her tongue, ran down her lips and chin. She wanted to spit but she could spit inside. Their groans behind her confirmed that she still had time. She jammed the key inside, turned the knob, slippery in her wet hand. When she heard the click she could have cried. She could have laughed. She had time for neither. As the door cracked open a hand snarled her hair, snapped her head back, and slammed it into the wood before her. Her teeth clapped and vision tunneled in hazy. She knew she was falling and, in the back of her scrambled egg brain, that she’d lost.


	12. Indifference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: sexual assault/battery. Dana finds out just how far Henry will go to make a point.  
> Chapter title by Finnish band Life Cycles. This band released one EP in the early 80's and it's phenomenal.

Sight came back in small, painful glimpses. She was on the ground, palms skinned and flat on cement, body twisted. Her ears rang and there were angry, muffled voices on the other side of the static. She could see movement, dark shapes closing in. She tried raising herself but they were closer than she could tell and one of them landed a kick to her ribs. She heard the crack from inside, imagined it lacing her bone in a butterfly pattern, like when a wine glass chips. The pain was like that, it started there but it spread through her torso and limbs, filled the soles of her feet with an ugly tickle. Her vision slipped again. It hurt too much. Dana wanted to sleep. Or to just be dead. But anger screamed at her to wake up, move, stand, fight. She felt them raise her hunched body, voices hissed but she couldn’t understand the words. She felt hands on her, hands holding her, bending her, twisting her arms, gripping her shoulders, pinning her wrists. She squirmed feebly against them but there were too many. The voices spoke in growls to each other. She strained her ringing ears to make out their exchange, little snippets, bit by bit.  
“—crazy fucking crazy! What the fuck, man—you said we were just gonna scare her!”  
“She don’t look scared? I think she looks pretty fucking scared.”   
“Jesus she’s fucking unconscious! She’s had enough Henry, ok? You gotta stop!”  
“You shut up Belch, shut your fucking mouth! This is what you signed up for so don’t you fucking turn chicken shit now!”  
Quiet. She felt cold on her wrists, sleek metal clamped like tight bracelets. First one. Click. Then the other. Click.   
When she tried to speak her tongue felt fat in her mouth and the words came out garbled. She could sort of see again, tipped down. She was putting less distance between the part of her mind that screamed at her and the part that felt like it was sleeping. She followed the voice until it was close enough to wake her. She shot up, coughing.   
“She’s coming to, Henry,” said a voice from the hands that held her. She twisted, tried to swing at them but her wrists were joined. She flexed and a metallic jingle answered. Handcuffs. Not plastic like the ones you get at the toy store as a kid to play cops and robbers. These were thick, strong shackles like she’d worn once before.   
It hurt to move her eyes. It hurt to breathe. Each intake of air made her knees buckle, and the arms holding her shifted to take her weight. Fingers stroked her intimately.

            “Lift her up,” she heard. Hands wrapped her torso, tilted her upper half vertical. It hurt to straighten out and she groaned loud as pain slapped her ribs.  
            Her eyes could focus again. In front of her the large boy stood, trucker hat plastered over sweaty hair, sweaty face, sweaty everything. He was pale and his face looked strained. Front and center, eyes gleaming, gloating, Henry stood, his jaw clamped so tightly it dug deep diverts into his cheeks. His face had a warm, healthy glow, like someone who’d been working in the sun. He stared brazen, cool, cruel eyes gleaming with superiority.   
            “You look good this way,” he said.  
            She couldn’t find the words at first but eventually they came. “What—the fuck...”   
            He just looked at her, calmly poured over every inch, lips parted ever so slightly, shook his head as though he couldn’t believe what he saw. “Real good,” he said dreamily.  
            “Take,” she began slowly, quietly. “The. Handcuffs. Off.” Then louder. “Take them off.”  
            “Or what?” he asked, tilting his head like she had when she mocked him. “Or what?”  
            “This isn’t a joke-”  
            “Does it look like I’m laughing? Do any of us look like we’re laughing?” No. They didn’t.  
            She tugged against the two restraining her, bucked forward, twisted her shoulders. Henry turned his back to her, took a couple of steps towards the side of the building.   
“First day I saw you outside your work, smoking. You looked so fine. Had to get a buzz on just to work up the nerve to talk to you.” He paused. “I’ve never wanted anything so bad.” The honesty in his voice was disturbing. He turned, approached slowly and said, almost sadly. “This could have been different y’know.” Now there were inches between them. She could smell him: smoky fabric, cheap beer, summer sweat, cut grass. His hand came up to smooth a strand of hair from her forehead where it clung to the gash he’d made. “I woulda been good to you. Woulda tried anyhow. But you had to run that mouth of yours.” His thumb faintly traced her lips. She jerked her head away and he clamped a hand around her chin, twisted her face, made her look at him. He held her there a moment, saying nothing, staring so intently, inky pupils blown as they poured over her face. Then he let go. “Take her to the car.”  
Coyote Boy grunted and bleach blond tugged obediently on the handcuff chain. They started to move her backwards. The pain was nothing then, not even a blip on the radar compared to the fear she felt and the knowledge that she had to get out. She thrashed, bucked, snarled. She tried to use her elbows but the blonde boy kept a taught pull on the chain and Coyote was using both of his arms to restrain, all of his weight to drag. When they reached the Trans Am she assumed they meant to toss her in it. Instead they bent her over the trunk. They did it without saying a word, like they’d rehearsed it a thousand times. Coyote and blonde stood on either side of her, gripped her arms at the joints. She fought hard going down but Coyote jammed his boot in her knee bed she toppled like a domino. She heard Henry approach. He was quiet. She tried one more time to buck, screamed loud, wild. He leaned over, dropped his full weight across her back. His hand raked her hair and brought her head up an inch or two. She heard a ‘tick’ and felt the briery edge of a blade at her throat.   
“You quiet down,” he warned gravely. “Or I’ll carve you up here and now.” She knew he meant it. She’d called his bluff once and he’d answered. Slowly, he removed the blade, released her hair. “You keep watch,” he ordered the big boy.   
“Henry...”   
“Stand up front and keep fucking watch!”  
She heard his heavy footsteps as he plodded off, resigned to his task.   
Bent over the car she felt the breeze ruffle her skirt. Today, of all days, she’d worn a dress, like some cruel, cosmic joke. Henry took his weight off to hike up her skirt until he’d exposed her to his liking. She contorted, clamped her knees, buckled her body to dead weight but Henry ignored her, slid his knife through the thin fabric of her underwear, sliced. She heard the light jingle of his belt buckle, fumbling hands on worn denim, the final, revolting zip as he pulled down his jeans. He spat and she heard the sound of flesh smack wet flesh. He spat again and mashed his wet hand against her where she’d never been touched. The shock stung and she squirmed with the strength she had left.   
“Don’t.” It was her own voice but she didn’t recognize it, choked and imploring as it was. “Don’t do this.”  
“Do it Henry,” Coyote Boy incited. “Do it! DO IT!”  
He pushed himself against her opening. Smooth. Unprotected. Again he let his weight fall full on her, placed a palm on either side of her face, leaned over and brought his lips to her ear. Warm breath needled her neck. “I’m gonna fuck you from behind like the bitch you are.” He slithered forward, parted her, was inside her.   
She cried out, sliced. His girth was more than she’d have thought and her dry walls were no match for it. He spat again into his hand, circled it around his shaft, thrust in deeper. More pain shook her, crashed and clattered her pelvis like shards of glass. He slid his right hand under her and began to rub, quick, rough circles, just enough for her to make her own moisture. Then, groaning, he took her hips hard, greedy hands digging white marks into the flesh, and rammed his full length into her. Each thrust more forceful, more urgent. She bit herself each time he pushed in, exhaled stiff when he slid back. She could almost hear Coyote grinning, grinding his smashed teeth against each other, licking the crust of dried blood from his lips and smacking them.   
She couldn’t focus on anything else. Details escaped. It was too hard to distance herself from the pain like she had in the hotel room or console her self with thoughts of later or after or someday. She was trapped in this time, this moment, with him.   
Her breath fogged the back windshield, the inside too, somehow; a dense mist that spread. The boys didn’t see it, but she did. There was movement inside, like someone shifting in a seat. Then, as if the passenger had read her mind, a white-gloved hand shot up, and wiped a circular clearing into the foggy glass. In that circle sprung a face. White bulbous head, cheeks etched with red lines, wispy strands of red hair trailed down to its jaw. A red, cherry nose perched in the middle of its face and two barbed teeth protruded from the center of a playful grin. Those same yellow eyes, grizzly little embers, singed the fog and made it sizzle. The only thing separating their faces, inches apart, was one pane of glass. It watched, gleefully, as her bound body rocked with the violence of Henry’s thrusts. It brought a gloved hand back up, extended a long finger, and traced a heart into the fog. Then it paused, amber eyes darting mischievously, to slash a little arrow-line through its center. It laughed and she was the only one to hear it, its howls harmonizing with the cheers of the boys that restrained her. Slowly it retreated back into the fog, grin plastered in place. Its eyes were the last to fade.   
“Fuck!” Henry groaned. “Fuuuucckkkkkk!” She felt warmth spill inside as Henry collapsed on top of her, still. With his face close to hers she could hear him pant softly. When he pulled out some of his come trailed down her leg.   
“My turn!” Coyote Boy hollered. “My turn.” He pried off his belt, wrestled fiercely with the buttons on his jeans.  
“No,” said Henry firmly, gathering himself up. He was still trying to catch his breath.  
“But-but you said-”   
“I said no.”   
“The hell man! I thought we were gonna take turns, this is bullshit!”  
Henry’s blade was out before he could protest any further. He held it first at Coyote. “Leave it Pat,” he snarled, the way one might talk to a dog with something dead in it’s mouth. He lowered his knife to Dana, yanked the fabric of her dress taut, and sliced it open. He shoved her hair aside and dipped the blade in shallow. The pain took her breath before she could cry out.   
“What are you doing?” Coyote asked, intrigued.   
Henry answered, in a tranquil tone “Bitch likes tattoos so much, I’m gonna give her one.” When he’d finished carving to his satisfaction he smiled a little. “You boys see that?” he asked, jabbing her back with two fingers. “Now none of you will forget who she belongs to,” he added, leaning over her. “and neither will she. Bring her up.”  
They lifted her to her feet and the agony of standing almost made her pass out. Henry walked a few paces, snatching the bar keys from the ground where she’d dropped them and tossing them high over the fence. They vanished in the nighttide.   
Next he moved to her bike, took out his knife, popped both tires and said, smirking “Not that you’ll be able to ride any time soon anyhow.” He stood before her, glowing triumphant. “Thinking about un-cuffing you now,” he began lowly. “Letting you crawl back to that shit hole apartment of yours.” He paused, took a few steps towards Dana, closing in their proximity. “But I wanna make something clear first.” He thrust a pointed finger in her face. “You tell anyone about this, anyone at all, next time it won’t be my dick I put in you. You won’t be so lucky. No, next time it’ll be this you fuck.”  He held the blade up to her face, pressed its cold metal to her cheek. Then, slowly, he lowered it, slid the point of the blade to her thigh, trailing it higher, higher.  "Do you understand?" he asked. He held the blade there a moment longer, then retracted it, dipping it back into his pocket. "Tell me you understand and I'll take off the cuffs."  
Dana sucked what saliva she had from her cheeks and spat. It was more blood than spit that hit Henry’s chest. The ruby blob trailed down his white tank and rested on his belt. He put his hand to it and wiped. His nostrils flared in anger and Dana could see the muscles in his arms start to quiver. Her voice cracked as she spoke.   
“Suck my-”   
She saw his fist as a blur from the corner of her eye, and the world got quiet again.


	13. Bata Motel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't not name a chapter after this song by CRASS, such a powerful, feminist anthem.  
> Still got a long way to go, lots of chapters to get through so I hope ya'll aren't sick of me yet :)  
> Always welcome comments, thoughts, questions, you name it!

  
Her fingers twitched a little. Their skinned tips groped the cement’s roughness. Joints stretched as she moved. The sick ache they brought made her gag but gagging hurt worse than stretching. Blood from her face had dried to the ground. She heard the sickening tear her skin made as she slowly lifted her head from the asphalt.  
She knew where she was and what had happened with strange clarity. There were no lapses in her memory, just a thick, throbbing lump where the back of her head met the ground. She put her hand to the spot, hissed in pain, jerked it away. She touched her lip next, felt where it had ripped. Still bleeding. Her vision was cloudy in one eye, the skin around it tight, bloated. Gently, she wiggled all of her teeth. Two of them were loose but not enough to fall out, she hoped. A bomb thundered through her skull when she turned her head. Her eyes searched her body in the dark for further damage. There was road rash on her forearms and elbows. On her right arm it was deep in a few places, so deep she could see white fat cells through the pulp of ripped skin. Her knees were torn bad too. It hurt to breath. She prodded her side timidly and winced. If not broken her ribs were at least badly bruised. She took as deep a breath as she could manage, lowered her hand to her thighs, reached between them. Her crotch burned hot and raw. Dana raised her hand, eyed the milky lather on her fingers. It glowed luminescent under moon. Light pink. Her blood. His come. She wretched. A hazy detail lurched to the forefront of her memory. Her back. He’d cut something into it. Carved words. She reached over her shoulder, grazed her back with her hand. The cuts, swollen now, were coated in crisp, light scabs. She tried to see how far down they went, follow the course of script etched in. More than a word or two, she realized grimly. More like a sentence. The marks spanned the length of her shoulders. There was a sob caught in her throat but it was too dry to come out and was afraid she’d throw up if she tried to let it. She rested her arm back on the dusty cement, weighed her options.  
She could go pound on a door if she wanted, wake up some sleepy stranger, show them her bloody crotch and torn knees and ask for a ride to the hospital. The notion barely fit in her head. She pictured what the drive would be like should they agree to take her. They’d both be quiet, uncomfortably so. Or worse, maybe they’d ask her questions, try to get her to interact. She’d bleed on their seats, catch a glimpse of the judgment in their eyes when then glanced back at her from the rear view mirror. No, she thought. It would be worse that way. The hospital was less than a mile from the bar, nine or ten blocks at most. She would take herself.  
Her bike was useless. But even in tact there was no way she’d have been able to ride it. She raised herself carefully. Her muscles quivered with the strain and she swayed at first like a toddler learning to walk. It was cold for a summer night. Goosebumps budded where her skin hadn’t been scraped away. She tucked the flap of dress back over her shoulder. The breeze lapped at the viscid patches on her bare back. Her boots scuffs echoed in the quiet lot as she began her walk. Dana remembered Henry’s threat as she marched weakly in the direction of Derry General. She didn’t care if he’d meant it. It didn’t matter how much she hated the police, or how much Sheriff Bowers got off on screwing with her. She had Henry’s semen inside her, his friends’ blood in her mouth, their skin under her nails. Nothing could argue with DNA. She didn’t care what she had to put herself through, how many people she had to tell, how many times she had to relay the details of her attack to a room who would judge her, poke and probe her, shame her, offer her blanket condolences. If it was the last thing she did she would make sure this boy would never hurt her, or any other girl again.


	14. Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter at the emergency room helps Dana put two and two together.  
> This chapter is named after a song by the The Comes. Hope you enjoy <3

Sonia Kaspbrak was hysterical. Her bloated face was blotched with fat red stress hives, tears of frustration beading in the corners of her narrowed eyes. She wore a Mumu, pink with lavender hibiscus flowers, white flip flops, short gray socks stretched to capacity around her massive ankles. She clutched her purse to her heaving bosom, squeezed it like a stress ball. She had a thick, fleshy finger outstretched, aimed like a billiard cue at the nurse behind the counter, who looked genuinely scared.  
“I’m telling you this is a medical emergency!” she wailed, her winy voice shrill and desperate. “My son could have melanoma! _Melanoma!_ And you’re telling me I have to wait? Do you know how fast those cells can multiple? Do you have any idea? Hell did you even _go_ to medical school?!”  
The nurse eyed the woman, startled. She looked down at her son, a small, but healthy-looking boy with wide brown eyes and chestnut hair. He started down at his shoes. The louder his mother got the more he winced.  
“So,” the nurse began, exhausted. “you’re here because your son has...a mole?”  
Sonia’s nostrils flared angrily. She looked like a bull about to charge the gate. “Not just a mole!” she snapped, snatching up her son’s arm and jerking it up to the desk for the nurse to see. “This mole!”  
The nurse leaned forward and looked. It was barely a freckle.  
“Ma’am I don’t really understand what-”  
“ _This_ mole,” Sonia interrupted, jerking his arm further and gesturing to it spastically. “was not here yesterday!”  
“Yes it was,” her son replied futilely. “Totally there mom. Been there forever.” If she’d been paying any attention she might have caught the irritation in his voice.  
“I want a biopsy done immediately! I want a blood work! I wanna talk to a specialist!”  
“Ma’am,” the nurse began, timidly. “it really just looks like a freckle to me.”  
“Is a freckle,” Eddie mumbled, though no one was listening. “Nothin’ but a freckle. Harmless freckle. Had it my whole life. Never hurt a soul.”  
Sonia snorted. “Oh I’m sorry, is that your professional opinion? I didn’t know nurses could diagnose patients, my apologies!” Gooey tears ran down her pock-marked cheeks. She brought a hand to her forehead dramatically, sniffed, and bent down to her son. “Eddie, baby, don’t you worry. Mom’s gonna take care of this. Why don’t you just go sit down over there while I talk to this lady’s supervisor.” She dug in her purse for a moment and extracted some change. “Here,” she said, thrusting the coins at him. “go get yourself a nice soda.”  
Eddie took the change, smiling a small, grim smile. “Ok mom.” He turned and trudged off to the vending machines down the hall.  
“Diet though Eddie!” she called after him. “You know how too much sugar gives you headaches. Oh, and nothing citrus! Remember honey? Your heartburn?”  
“I got it Mom.”

Eddie pushed two quarters into the slot, and pressed Diet Doctor Pepper without even looking at the other options. He opened the can and took a sip. All he could taste was aspartame. He took a seat in a teal vinyl chair in a sea of other sea teal vinyl chairs, adjusting his fanny pack as he sat. His large eyes darted nervously as they checked his calculator watch.  
“Six in the morning she’s doing this now,” he mumbled. “Unbelievable.” His mother did this every so often, usually when things had been quiet for awhile. His health would be fine, everything going smoothly, and all of a sudden she’d notice something. Last month she said he was wheezing and she’d made him get chest x-rays. Before that his voice sounded different and she was convinced he had vocal cord polyps. Worst of all was the one time he’d forgotten to flush the toilet and Sonia managed to catch a glimpse of his pee. Kidney stones, she’d insisted, saying over and over again “Normal pee doesn’t smell like that Eddie.” Now it was the freckle, tiny, unassuming pinprick of a freckle on his right forearm. He’d gone to bed like normal, woke up to his mother’s big face looming over him as she switched on his desk lamp. “I’ve been up all night worrying Eddie,” she croaked, wet-eyed stare like a neglected puppy dog. “We gotta go get that thing checked or removed or something right now or I know I won’t ever sleep again!”  
Now here he was, barely six in the morning, staring down at his shoes in the ER waiting room, drinking chalk soda while his mother chewed out some poor nurse who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. If Sonia only knew the things he was dealing with these days, if she had even the slightest idea, she wouldn’t be worried about a damn freckle, of that much he was certain. The bags under his large, sparrow eyes weren’t just from waking up early that morning. Truth was he hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night in over a week. It wasn’t hypochondria keeping him awake for once either. It was something else.  
Footsteps interrupted his thoughts and truthfully he was grateful for it. He raised his head in their direction, craned his neck to get a better look. He didn’t see her face at first, it was obscured by a mass of dark, disheveled hair. She leaned over the nurse’s desk, leaned on it, like she was having a hard time holding herself up. She spoke so quietly Eddie couldn’t make out what she said, but he could tell from the nurse’s face whatever it was must’ve been bad. She kept her arms curled around her torso, fingers fish-hooked under the sleeves of her dress. She clung to it so hard her knuckles were white. The nurse hurried out from behind her post, took off her sweater and draped around the girl’s shoulders. When she turned he saw got a better look at her, noticing for the first time that she was covered in tattoos. Then it dawned on him. He’d seen this girl before. This was the girl that lived next door to Beverly, the girl she idolized, the girl who, less than twenty-four hours ago had gone head to head with Henry Bowers and left him, speechless and bleeding in the Center Street Drugstore parking lot. She’d looked like a lioness then, poised and feral, ready to strike. But now, hunched and wrapped in the nurse’s oversized sweater, she looked like a scared, lost child.  
The nurse asked her a few questions that he couldn’t hear. He managed to make out “-help getting to a chair?” The girl shook her head in response. The next words he heard were “call” and “police” and “crisis councilor.” When the nurse disappeared in the office, the girl slowly approached to the waiting area. The closer she got, the worse she looked, and by the time she managed to lower herself into a seat, Eddie could see exactly how bad it was. And it was bad. Her left eye was nearly swollen shut, purple and puckered around a shallow cut that had taken a chunk of her eyebrow with it. Her bottom lip was split and swollen and there was blood around her mouth and on her bottom row of teeth. Her knees and elbows were raw and bloody. Her legs were covered in scrapes and scratches, some superficial, some deep. When she reached to move the hair out of her face he saw the lump on her forehead, blooming out a good half inch from her skull and lined with a deep gash of its own. Her palms were dirty; her dress torn and dusted with gray grime. It was the first time in Eddie’s life that he had seen someone so hurt, actually smelled blood, and the heaviness of it all made him want to do something. But he wasn’t sure what he could do.  
He got up, moved a couple of seats closer to her, leaving only one between them. She didn’t seem to notice. The blood smell was thicker in the air. Sweet almost, like old pennies. Eventually his staring jarred her. Slowly, she turned her head and looked at him, her swollen eye twitching.  
“Hey,” Eddie said, awkwardly. “How are you?”  
She stared at him, raised one eyebrow, her bloody face livid.  
“Right,” he said quickly. “Right stupid question obviously.” He paused. “Are you ok?”  
She turned away from him, rubbed her chapped knuckles gently between two fingers. “I’ve been better.” Her voice was cracked and small.  
Eddie’s stomach dropped to his feet. It was daunting to think that this was the same girl who had slugged Henry Bowers in the face. Slumped over in her chair she looked broken. Defeated.  
“You’re Bev’s neighbor right?” he asked. “You made her that tape? She played it for us. I’m Ed. Edward. Eddie.” The girl sat motionless. “What happened to you?” he blurted out, less tactfully than he’d planned.  
She whipped her head and glared at him. “None of your fucking business.”  
Eddie recoiled. She coughed, winced, took a deep shaky breath. “Sorry,” she said, more gently. “but let’s be real here; you don’t wanna know, and I don’t wanna tell you.”  
“Ok. That’s fair.” Eddie’s eyes darted wildly. He fidgeted more when he was nervous. As he looked down he caught a glimpse something dark. There was blood on the girl’s thigh, trailing down from under the hem of her skirt in a sinuous line. She didn’t seem to notice, likely distracted by her other injuries. Eddie was only thirteen and had, until recently, lived a very sheltered existence. But even he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone had hurt this girl in the worst way. And that he could never even begin to understand how that felt. His eyes stung, stomach churned with feelings he wasn’t sure how to process.  
“I heard that nurse say she was calling the cops,” he started.  
“Yeah,” she answered bitterly. “I’m really looking forward to talking to them.” She sniffed, wiped blood and clear snot from her nose.  
“I mean, if they can find out who did this-”  
“I know who did it,” she interrupted.  
“You do?”  
She looked down, nodded.  
“Then,” Eddie began, timidly. “if you know who did it, then the cops should be able to catch him, right?”  
She didn’t say anything.  
Eddie leaned forward in his seat, tried to catch her eyes. Her lips were trembling. She pulled the sweater tighter around her torso, stretching the gray fibers until they gaped. She sniffed again, shook her head, wiped moisture from the corners of her eyes. Her jaw was clamped shut tight.  
“You’re gonna be ok,” he said, earnestly. “You’re like the toughest person I’ve ever seen.”  
She scoffed, shook her head and swallowed with some difficulty. “Not feeling real tough right now.” Her voice barely above a whisper.  
“Are you kidding me? You are so though,” he insisted. “I saw you yesterday at the drug store. I mean, you punched Henry Bowers in the face. Henry fucking Bowers, you just decked him right in the face, didn’t think twice. I mean if that’s not tough I don’t know-”  
“What did you say?” She turned her head slowly, looked at him in a way he didn’t like. Expectant, almost angry.  
Eddie swallowed. “Just...you know...you’re tough.”  
“His name. Last name.” Her face suddenly so pale that even the blood staining it seemed muted. Her dry lips twitched as she waited for him to speak.  
His meekness rivaled her intensity. “Bowers? Henry Bowers.”  
“Bowers,” she whispered, brows furrowed in confusion. “Bowers.” She said it again, slow, deliberate, as though the the name itself was the answer to some long pondered question.  
“Yeah Henry Bowers. He’s a senior at my school. Pretty much makes everybody miserable.” He spoke a mile a minute now, tried to fill in the crater of his discomfort with words. “He’s a real psycho if you ask me. A real asshole. I know this kid Ben, you’ll never believe what he did to him-”  
“Sheriff Bowers...” She wasn’t listening. “Bowers.” She repeated. When she turned to Eddie her expression was so surreal it made the tiny hears at the back of his neck stand up. “Sheriff Bowers?” she asked, in a low voice.  
“Th-that’s H-Henry’s dad.”  
She stared in his direction a moment longer. But she wasn’t really looking at him. More through him. Her unbruised eye welled with moisture though her face was motionless. Almost serene. A thick tear rolled from her unblinking eye. She didn’t wipe it. “Of course he is,” she rasped. “Of course he is. That's how he got them...” "Got what?" Eddie asked, fear in his voice. She opened her mouth to speak but there were no words, no air. She gasped, took in two heaving gulps of oxygen. Her mouth pulled into an incredulous half smile and she laughed a dry laugh; soft at first, then deep, choking belts that took all the air from her lungs and forced it out hard. Eddie stared at her, eyes wide in horror. He watched her collapse into her hands. She raked her fingers through her hair and pulled as the laughter morphed into sobs that shook her whole, hunched body. She let go of her head, straightened back up. Her face looked enflamed, pale with scarlet traces around her nose and eyes. The tears had turned some of the blood on her face from dry to wet. She put her head back against the wall, closed her eyes, breathed in shallow, shaky sips. Then she turned to Eddie, stared at him, eyes glazed like wet porcelain. The misery they held coupled with that eerie smile was an image Eddie would remember for the rest of his life.  
“You should get out of here,” she said woodenly. “You should leave. Because I swear there is something wrong here. There is something in this town that just— _fucks_ with you. It just fucks with you until you can’t—can’t fucking fight it off. I’m tired.” She took her face in her hands, held it there for a second, touched her swollen eye gently, sadly. She pulled her her forward and let it fall back heavily, smacking square against the wall. “I’m so fucking tired.”  
Eddie sat still, paralyzed. Her words resonated a familiar feeling of helplessness he held within himself. He stared at her, scared by her words, unsure how to take them.  
When the nurse walked over to them Eddie looked up, met her worried eyes with his own. She had a doctor with her, a turtle-looking man with round glasses and thinning hair. He held a clip board and there was a stethoscope slung around his neck. The girl didn’t look up when they stopped next to her chair. She sat motionless, shoulders hunched, chin to her chest.  
“Hon?” the nurse said. Her concern seemed genuine. “Hon this is Doctor Milton. He’s gonna help you to an exam room.”  
“Like hell he is.”  
The doctor and nurse exchanged looks. “He’s just gonna help you get settled while we wait for the police to arrive.”  
“Dana is it?” the doctor spoke up, leaning down. “You can come with me now. The police are on their way.”  
The girl didn’t move, dead eyes fixed on the floor. “No.” She said firmly.  
“I’m sorry?” the doctor said, leaning over her further.  
“I said no.”  
“Would you rather I took you?” the nurse asked, placing a hand on her arm.  
The girl turned. She stared at the nurse’s hand and her face contorted in disgust. She jerked her arm away as though there’d been a tarantula crawling on it. “No,” she said again.  
“Do you wanna wait here for the police sweetie?” she asked. The doctor looked annoyed.  
The girl didn’t respond. Instead she put a hand on each of the armrests and rose shakily to her feet.  
“What are you doing?” The doctor asked.  
“Leaving.”  
“Excuse me?” He furrowed his brow.  
“Sweetie...” the nurse cooed.  
She was up and she was walking.  
“Hon, you need to sit down-” They were both walking after her. Eddie rose from his seat, took a few steps towards them.  
“I’m leaving,” she said again.  
“You can’t just leave,” the doctor exclaimed huffily. “the police are on their way!”  
“Call them off. Tell them not to come.” She continued to walk, picking up speed.  
The doctor reached out, took her shoulder gently. “Miss you need stay here-”  
The girl whirled, smacking his hand away with her forearm so hard Eddie heard their bones clap. “You keep your fucking hands off me! You hear me?” She stuck her hands out to block them, bruised arms ready to throw punches. The nurse took a step back while the doctor rubbed his sore hand.  
“Are you on drugs?” he asked, accusingly.  
She laughed, indignant. “Sure. Fine I’m on drugs. Whatever you need to think. Whatever you need to tell them. I don’t care. But I’m leaving. And you just better let me leave.” She pulled the sweater tighter over her shoulders. “I’m keeping this,” she said to the nurse. “You probably don’t want it back now anyway.” She backed through the double doors, only turning around once she was on the other side. Then she was gone.  
When Sonia Kaspbrak returned with a very annoyed doctor she found her son pale, shaken, speechless.  
“Eddie honey! What’s the matter? You see doctor? You see! I told you he was sick. Just look at him! What is it Eddie? Talk to Mommy, won’t you? Eddie! Talk to me!”  
Eddie just stared at her, unable to convey the scene she had missed, unwilling. It was then that his mother noticed the little pool of ruby liquid congealed on the seat two chairs over.  
“Oh my god!” she screeched, pulling him from his chair by the wrist and taking him firmly by the shoulders. “Is that your blood? Is it Eddie? Answer me! Is it?”  
“No Mom,” Eddie said quietly. “it’s someone else’s.”


	15. Dark Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: this chapter depicts an attempted suicide.  
> I'm gonna post one more chapter tonight right because this would be a rough cliffhanger to end on for the night imo. 
> 
> Song for this chapter by Chicago band DA! This song/band is so good here's a link in case you haven't already heard it. Enjoy :)
>
>> ####  [DA! Dark Rooms (1981)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3V2qh0zNQM)

The walk was just trudging. She turned her brain off. She didn’t feel pain. She didn’t think. She just walked. Her legs acted without her permission. One foot before the other until she was mounting her stairs. It seemed fast. The only thing she noticed was how dry her mouth was. She was thirsty.  
Tiny crimson beads dotted the stairs behind her. Grim Hansel and Gretel trail of blood crumbs. Inside she closed the door, turned the lock until it clicked. She didn’t know that Beverly had seen her come in, or that she had seen the trail of ruby droplets that speckled the steps. Nor would she hear her when she knocked on the door, called her name.  
She made it to the shower, ribs singing out in pain as she bent to turn on the faucet. The water hissed hot. She peeled off her tattered funeral dress, stepped over the edge of the tub, let the water burn her. It invaded her cuts and welts, pummeled the bruises. She cupped her hand to catch some of it but it turned red with her blood before she could bring it to her face. It took three handfuls before it ran clear. Standing up hurt too much. She let her weight fall to the shower wall, leaned back, sank to the corner of the tub and balled herself into the smallest possible dimension. She hugged her knees and rocked with the water. Didn’t have to try not to think. The thoughts weren’t coming. Her brain was stuck in limbo. She could feel the tub’s slippery surface, the pinpricks of hot water against her open wounds, see the rust-red water dilute and twist down the drain as more and more of her blood flooded it. But she had no thoughts. They wouldn’t come.  
She wasn’t sure how long she sat in the shower. Eventually the skin on her fingers and toes was warped and wrinkled and the heat made her thirstier. After she got out she stared at herself in the mirror for awhile. Her reflection was pale, beaten, as she’d expected. It didn’t make her sad. Or if it did she didn’t notice.  
She was a zombie as she shuffled to the hamper, pulled a large, soiled shirt from the wad of clothes, and slid it over her torso. She was a zombie when she rummaged through the cabinet and found the tequila she’d stashed and tried to forget. She was a zombie when she flung off the cap and sat down with the bottle in front of her like a meal at the kitchen table. And, like a zombie, she ate her meal. The bottle tilted into her mouth and the warm, caustic liquid was a golden elixir. She drank it in gulps. She drank it until she gagged. When she put the bottle down there wasn’t much left. Another couple swallows or so. But the alcohol had done the opposite of what she wanted. She’d started to wake up, to think again. Futility and helplessness and anger were charging her brain as the booze swam the channels of her veins. Her body hurt now. The pain seemed worse with every moment she continued to exist. Her ribs ached, her head throbbed, her crotch burned, knees and elbows cracked and wept if she moved too suddenly. She took another swig. There were painkillers in the bathroom somewhere. Painkillers. Kill painers. She rose from her chair, tequila bottle gripped and swinging from her limp arm. The walk to the bathroom felt long. Felt endless. When she reached it she caught her reflection again. This time though, she wasn’t alone. Behind her, silver and shimmering, was the clown from the car. It was silent this time. Its red buttons and pastry collar were all that fit in the reflection. It was so tall, so very tall, she couldn’t see past the shoulders. She was too tired to run, to be scared, to turn, to confront, to question. Instead she watched it in the mirror, dethatched, like she was watching an image on TV. The clown raised a long arm. It skirted her shoulder. She didn’t try to move, didn’t even flinch. It reached past her, taking hold of the medicine cabinet handle. It pulled, and when she finally summoned the will to turn and look it in the face, it wasn’t even there to be seen. She was alone. She felt the same electric charge in the air, familiar and prickly as it was the night she’d been jumped by the shiny black gimp. The depths of her insanity dawned on her fully, and before she had another moment to think or worry or be scared, she’d reached into the cabinet and extracted a bottle of aspirin. Her head ached. Her head ached and her body ached and her heart ached. She nursed tequila, flung the cap from the bottle of pills, tilted her head back, and poured. They were bitter so she swallowed quick, let them worm their way down her throat, chased with lots of small sips so they wouldn’t get stuck. When there were no more pills, and no more liquid she rose, staggered a few steps down the hallway, in search of something that she wouldn’t be able to find. The walls around her blurred, breathed, closing in quick and dark. A familiar place. A familiar smell. A fate she’d known was hers for so long it was comforting now to stare it in the face. She was alone with the black moldy hole, the crevice between the paper, the endless span of dark depth. There was no reality separating them, nothing to keep her from answering its call. Alone and ready to receive it, she closed her eyes and crawled inside.


	16. Your Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got all the losers together for this one! hope you enjoy :)  
> Chapter title for this one is a song by the Pandora's <3  
> 

Morning sun sizzled the back of Beverly’s neck as she rapped her fist on Dana’s door. “Dana?” she called. “Dana?”  
She knew she was in there, had heard her come in early. She herself was up with the sun. She’d tossed and turned all night, brain locked up with anticipation and dread. Today was the day, the day they were going. And though she was terrified by what she and her friends might encounter in the Niebolt House, what scared her more was why Dana wouldn’t answer her now. She’d seen blood on the steps, sparse drops scattered that lead to Dana’s door. She’d knocked once, called out to her. She’d gotten no response then either and it left a nervous twinge in the pit of her stomach. She tried to ignore it at first. Got dressed, choked down some food, called Bill to make sure they were still meeting at her place at 8:00. Still she couldn’t shake that feeling, the anxious, sick feeling stabbing away at her guts. Now with every passing second that Dana didn’t answer Beverly slipped closer to panic. She balled her fists tight, thwacked harder against the veneer.  
“Dana! Answer goddamnit!” She tried to see in through the windows but the blinds were turned and the only gap they left was too high to reach.  
“You r-r-ready, B-Bev?” Bill’s gentle voice came from behind. She hadn’t even heard them come up. Startled, she turned to them.  
“No,” she said quickly. “Something’s wrong. Where’s Eddie and Mike?”  
“They’re meeting us here. What’s the matter?” Ben asked. The concern was clear on his round face. He’d never seen Beverly so pale, so clearly afraid. Her eyes were wild and imploring.  
“I need to talk to Dana,” she went on, turning angrily back to the door. “She’s not answering.”  
“M-m-maybe she’s not home.”  
“She is. I know she is.”  
“She’s probably just sleeping,” Stan offered.  
“Maybe she’s got a guy in there with her,” Richie said coyly. “Or a girl...” He raised himself on his toes, craning his neck to see inside.  
Beverly whirled, landing a punch to his shoulder. “Shut up Richie!”  
“Ow! The fuck’s her problem?”  
“My problem is I’m worried!” There were tears welling in her eyes. “This isn’t like her. Something’s wrong, I know it.”  
“Look,” Richie began, rubbing his sore shoulder. “you don’t have to worry about her. I mean, shit, she’s like twenty.”  
Beverly ignored him. “Dana!” she called again. “open up!”  
“That chick’s tough,” Richie went on. “Bill tell you she punched Henry Bowers in the face?”  
Beverly paused, turned to them, wide-eyed. “She what?”  
“Bowers said some shit about how she was a dike—sorry—gay—or whatever. And she decked him in the face! Bam! Middle of Center Street parking lot, just walks up to him and punches him right in the fucking jaw! Balls that big, she can probably take care of herself.”  
“H-he’s r-r-right Bev. S-she’s probably f-f-fine.”  
“No she’s not.” It was Eddie. He practically charged the steps, his little legs stretched to take them two at a time, eyes darting more spastically than usual. Mike was close behind. “She in there?” he asked. His breath came out strained.  
“What’s going on?” Beverly demanded,  
“My mom took me to the ER last night, some crazy shit about a freckle, which totally turned out to be nothing by the way-”  
“Eddie!” she snapped.  
“Right, anyway, while I’m waiting your neighbor walks in, all bloody and beat up. She says some weird shit about Henry Bowers and how this town is fucked and freaks out and leaves. It was bad...the way she talked...”  
Beverly’s heart quivered in her chest. Without thinking she grabbed the doorknob and twisted. It turned. She put her shoulder to the door, pushed. It swung open a few inches only to catch on the chain latch. She pulled at it for a moment, crouched, put her face to the gap, eyes pouring over the dim interior. Searching, until they landed on what she hoped to she wouldn’t see.  
“Oh my god...”  
“She in there?” Eddie asked, panic in his voice.  
“She’s on the floor! She’s not moving!” Beverly tugged savagely at the door, rattling the chain in its backing. “We have to get in!”  
Mike rushed to the door, grabbing the width of the side and pulling to test the chain’s strength. “Your dad got a tool box?” he asked, gripping the chain and giving it a good yank.  
“Yeah, I think so.”  
“See if he’s got a pair of bolt cutters in it.”  
Beverly nodded and dashed into her apartment.  
The boys crowded the door. Eddie pushed his way to the front, crouched, peered through the opening. He saw the empty bottle first, glowing like crystal; a toppled beacon that caught the light coming in through the blinds. Then he saw her hand, pale and motionless, fingers long and graceful, white against the oak floorboards. She lay on her side, dark hair gathered around her face and shoulders, bare legs and raw knees outstretched behind her. Her face was serene despite her black eye and split lip. Her mouth parted ever so slightly, eyelids glistened like pearls.  
“Oh shit,” Eddie murmured as he backed away. “Shit.”  
Beverly reemerged from her doorway, cheeks flushed. She held out the heavy tool and Mike took it from her. He brought the bolt cutters to the chain, wedged the links between the dull blades, and squeezed. It took a few seconds but the chain succumbed, shooting shards of metal onto the porch as it snapped. Mike palmed the door and it opened. For a moment no one could do anything. They stood frozen, transfixed by the spectacle. Beverly was the first to respond  
“Oh no,” she whispered. She moved quickly inside, dropping to her knees and putting a hand on Dana’s arm. “Dana!” she cried, shaking her. “Dana!” She put her face to Dana’s, listening intently, desperate to feel her breath. But there was nothing to be felt but the cold, stagnant air that labeled their proximity. “She’s not breathing!” she cried.  
“Feel for a pulse!” Eddie stammered, dropping down beside her as the others began to gather around.  
Dana’s skin was cold but still soft, a good sign. But Beverly felt nothing.  
“No pulse! What do we do?” She took Dana’s face in her hands, cupped her bruised cheeks. “Dana!” she screamed, shaking her. “Dana!”  
“Maybe we should slap her?” Richie offered, his face somber.  
“Richie sh-shut the fuck up!” Bill stuttered, kneeling at Dana’s side.  
“I’m trying to help!” Richie shot back.  
“CPR! Does anyone know CPR?” It was Ben this time. He approached gingerly, his heart thudding angry rhythms in his chest.  
“I do! I know it,” Eddie said. “but I-I can’t do it.”  
Beverly gawked at him incredulously. “Why?”  
“Look I’m not strong enough ok! My mom made me take the class at the Y last year I could barely fucking make a dent in that dummy they made us practice on let alone a real chest on a real person-”  
“With real boobs,” Richie added.  
Dana ignored him. “I’ll do it just tell me what to do.”  
“You’re not exactly He-Man Bev,” he rattled off, wide eyes darting around the group. “Mike,” he said finally. “Mike’s the strongest.”  
Mike’s froze like a deer in headlights. “I can’t-”  
“It’s easy—I’ll walk you through it,” Eddie stammered.  
Beverly looked at him, her gray eyes pleading as her bottom lip began to tremble. “Mike...please...”  
Mike sighed. “Tell me what to do.”  
“Ok,” Eddie started, “flip her on her back.”  
Mike crouched, put a hand on Dana’s shoulder, rolled her over gently.  
“Ok,” Eddie went on, he spoke so fast his speech came out slurred. “now, y-you sit on top of her, and you put your hands on her chest-”  
Richie snorted. “And you guys call me a pervert?”  
“Richie for fuck’s sake SHUT UP,” Eddie thundered. No one had ever heard him sound so forceful. “Go ahead Mike.”  
Mike couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable. He eased his weight onto her as carefully as he could, settling just above her hips. Reaching out, he rested his hands below her collar bone. “Here?” he asked.  
“A little lower, towards the middle.”  
He lowered them slightly.  
“Ok,” Eddie started. “now you’re gonna do—chest compressions—you’re gonna do thirty pumps—two per second—and then—then you’re gonna hold her nose, tilt her head, and-and blow into her mouth two times. You got that?”  
“I think so,” Mike said. His palms had started to sweat.  
“I’ll count with you, ready?”  
He nodded.  
“One—two—three—”  
Mike pushed, felt the tension of her ribs under his hands, careful not to crack them. He pumped while Eddie counted, face locked in concentration. Beverly took Dana’s hand in her own and squeezed, silently mouthed the numbers along with them. Ben put a hand on Beverly’s shoulder as Bill, Stan, and Richie held their breath.  
“twent- eight—twenty-nine—thirty! Ok, pinch her nose now—head back—tilt her head back!”  
Mike did as instructed, cupping her chin. He covered her nose, brought his mouth to hers, and blew. He could taste the liquor on her lips, feel the tip of her tongue as it grazed his own. His stomach twirled but he blew, first one breath, then a second.  
“Ok—ok—give it a second—just wait—just wait a second!” Eddie brought his face to Dana’s, his ear to her lips.  
“How long does it take?” Beverly asked, glancing from Eddie to Mike.  
Eddie shushed her, putting his ear closer, listening intently for any sign of life. When she suddenly coughed, he nearly jumped out of his skin, recoiling and audibly gasping. She continued to cough. Eyes still closed she gagged, struggled for air.  
“She’s choking!” Stan shouted.  
Eddie launched into action. “Here—flip her over—put her on her side!”  
Mike seized her shoulders and pushed. Once on her side Dana sputtered, opened her mouth, and spewed a jet of neon orange vomit.  
“Holy shit!” Richie exclaimed, jerking his leg out of its path.  
“That’s good,” Eddie said, patting her back as she expelled another vomit rope. “That’s good, get it out.”  
Beverly smoothed Dana’s hair from her forehead, gathering the loose strands out of the way. Some of the pills were still whole when they came out.  
“Holy shit,” Richie murmured.  
Dana wretched until she was empty, the last course of gags shaking her body violently. She dug her fingers into the floorboards and clung to them. She slowly peeled back her stiff eyelids and stared hazily at the group surrounding her.  
“Dana,” Beverly said softly. “Dana?”  
She looked at Beverly. Then around at the others. Then back to Beverly.  
All she managed to get out was a very quiet, very hoarse “Shit.”


	17. Riot In My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! sorry for the lack of chapters last week. too much work, not enough time. guess that means i'll have to lay it on pretty thick for ya the next few days :)  
> Chapter title is a song by Poison Girls. Give them a listen if you haven't heard them. Enjoy <3

Dana sat still and silent as Beverly draped a blanket around her shoulders. She took timid sips of the water she brought her. She didn’t make eye contact.  
“W-w-we’ll be outside,” Bill said.   
“Yeah, let’s give them some room,” Ben agreed.  
Eddie had paused on his way out. He turned, looked down at the floor, and in small voice said “I’m glad you’re ok.”   
“How’d you know?” she asked quietly. Her voice was gravelly from acid.   
“I heard you come in. It was just a feeling I had at first. But then Eddie said he saw you. In the emergency room.”   
Dana didn’t respond. The silence between them hung thick and heavy. Beverly wasn’t sure how to breach it. But she was worried and angry and the last remnants of adrenaline were still making their way through her veins. She thought maybe that Dana might have said thank you. That she’d have been relieved to wake up in the physical world, that her attempt at suicide was just a momentary lapse in judgment, a drunken mistake.  
“What happened?” Beverly asked, finding her voice at last.  
Dana shook her head. She raised her shoulders feebly and shrugged. “I just had enough of it.”  
“Of what?”  
“Everything.”   
Knots twisted in Beverly’s stomach but she eyed Dana expectantly, silently urged her to continue.  
“I’ve been fighting everything—everyone—since I can remember. Just to be able to exist. And I was doing ok at it. I was getting by. But lately it’s like—like this place, this town, is just fucking with me. And I know it sounds crazy, that I sound crazy…but it’s like…it’s like this fucking town has it out for me. The people here…I don’t know. I don’t even know what’s real anymore. I can’t tell. And I’m just so fucking scared all the time.”  
“What are you scared of?” Beverly asked gravely.  
“I don’t even know. Nothing. Everything? I don’t know. I’m tired. I can’t keep up. I just…I just wanted it to be over.”   
Beverly leaned in closer, put a hand on her shoulder. She wasn’t sure what she could say. She had a feeling there was something Dana was leaving out but she didn’t want to pry. Not now at least.   
“Bowers,” she began cautiously. “he do this to you?”  
Dana drew in a sharp breath at his name. “He did everything to me,” she murmured icily.  
At this Beverly’s heart jumped and fell to her knees. A sob locked in her throat but she willed it away.   
“I tried to go to the cops. I didn’t know his dad was the fucking sheriff.”  
“That shouldn’t change anything.”  
“No you’re right it shouldn’t. But it does. It changes everything. It’s the punch line of the fucking joke that is my life. It doesn’t matter how it should be. It doesn’t matter what’s fair. I know his dad would get him out of it. I don’t know how. But I know he would.”  
“I don’t think his dad-”  
“You think the sheriff wants this whole fucking town to know that his son is an honest to god psycho? A fucking rapist? You think that’ll do his image any good? Fuck no. I know. I know him. He’d cover it up, blow me off just like he did when those pricks trashed my fucking car. Probably even enjoy dishing out the punishment to Henry himself.” She paused. “Like father, like son.”   
“You mean…”   
Dana looked down, sucked her cheeks. “I shouldn’t even be telling you this shit. It’s not fair to you—you shouldn’t have to hear it. I just…I don’t have anyone…”  
“You have someone,” Beverly said sternly, taking Dana’s scraped hand in her own. She attempted a smile “Also I’m pretty sure Eddie’s in love with you,” she said.  
They glanced through the screen door at the huddle of boys who were trying hard to seem like they were in fact being very nonchalant and not all watching with bated breath.   
Beverly chuckled and to her surprise Dana managed a small, exhausted smile.


	18. Attitudes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last one for tonight, chapter title song by The Brat  
> <3

Beverly left soon after. Her friends were getting antsy. She said there was something they had to do, something real important. Dana made her promise to stay the hell away from Henry Bowers. Beverly agreed if Dana promised she wouldn’t try again.  
Her apartment was quiet. She was alone again. The floor had a peach shimmer where she’d thrown up. The immediate air around it smelled like acid. The kids had cleaned it up as best they could. The squirrely one, Eddie, had offered her a handkerchief from his fanny pack to wipe her mouth. _What 14-year-old boy carries a fucking handkerchief?_ she wondered. _Or a fanny pack for that matter..._  
The silence settled heavily into every crevice, echoing noiselessly against her eardrums. She rose from the floor, eyes falling on the patch of burnt floorboards where the gimp had sprawled.  
Her body felt broken. Mentally she wasn’t sure what was going on. There were too many thoughts, too much that clashed and contradicted in her brain. Sliding in between the sheets, she wasn’t sure yet if she was furious or relieved to be alive. Mostly she was surprised. Even clouded by blood loss, head trauma, and booze, her plan was sincere, well executed; there really was no reason she should be alive. Her sore, scabbed head swam in hung-over haze. The pillow was cool and soft on her cheek. And she was asleep before she could find out how badly yawning would hurt her jaw.  
She lay in bed a long time after she woke. It was dark out. The phone rang five or six times and she made no attempt to answer it. She imagined Terry’s sallow face, drooping with worry and confusion as he held the receiver to his doughy ear. The image passed though. She had no room for Terry-guilt. Her thoughts wove an impenetrable tapestry and she couldn’t tell which part to focus on; each fragment was of equal importance, demanding her immediate attention. Anger, feat, guilt, confusion, helplessness, gratitude, shame...and this was just her mental spectrum. Her physical form was busy with its own pain-race. She wasn’t sure who would win there: her head? Her raw elbows and knees? Her ribs? Her burning crotch? Her jaw and loose teeth? Her shoulders? Her shoulders—her back... She’d let it slip from her mind; Henry’s final assault on her. _“You boys see that? Now none of you will forget who she belongs to. And neither will she.”_  
Dana pushed the covers off and sat up, tensing as her stomach muscles locked in spasm. She rose and stood before the full-length mirror that stood in the corner. Hesitantly, she removed her shirt. She was genuinely shocked by what she saw. Sleep had sobered her, helped clear her head. Now she took in her condition consciously, and it was so much worse than she could have imagined. Her bruises had darkened rapidly, their berry hues stark contrast against her paleness. The worst were on her hips and thighs, deep plum patches where Henry’s fingers had dug in. The swelling around her eye had worsened too, peppered crimson, brown, almost black on her cheekbone where she’d taken the brunt of his final hit. Her lip was split and puffy, her joints bloody. She took a moment to come to terms with her appearance. _It’ll heal_ , she told herself. _It’ll all heal._  
When she felt strong enough, she turned and looked over her shoulder. She had a pretty good idea of what he’d cut into her and sadly her suspicions were spot on. It was the same crude script he’d used on her car. Now it defaced her body, backwards in the mirror but easy to read regardless. The letters spanned the width of her shoulder blades, and read “Henry Bower’s Whore”.  
Bile and salt rose to the back of Dana’s throat. She retched but her stomach was empty. When she looked back to the mirror she didn’t recognize herself. She felt like she was looking at someone else, some sympathetic, angry stranger. _What the fuck do I do?_ She wanted to ask them.  
Her stomach growled. Dana couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. _That’s a start,_ she thought, sliding her cutoffs carefully over swollen hips. _Gotta start somewhere._


	19. Dear Prudence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got a lot backed up to post so get ready for an onslaught of chapters :)  
> Chapter song title by Siouxsie and the Banshees   
> Enjoy and thank you for reading! As always I love and appreciate comments   
> xxxooo
> 
> side note: I am now sitting down to write the FINAL CHAPTER...feels kinda weird haha

The first day Dana couldn’t bring herself to do much. She slept mostly, got a burger and ate it in the drive through parking lot. “What happened to your face?” the cashier asked clumsily when she ordered. Dana didn’t answer.   
Day two was rougher. She hovered consistently between mania and paralyzing depression, sitting before her mirror for hours at a time. She studied her bruises obsessively, replayed the assault over and over, toiled over what she could have done differently, what she should have done. It was absurd, she realized, to blame herself but there was so much anger inside of her and it was boiling over and polluting her thoughts. No matter how much of it she funneled at Henry or his friends or Sheriff Bowers there was still excess, and it had to go somewhere. So she’d aim it inwards, and it would evolve from there into shame, embarrassment, guilt, disgust. She hounded herself for not seeing it coming, for provoking it, for not fighting hard enough in the actual moment. She’d sob and scream and grind her teeth, smash everything in the apartment that would break, before returning, inevitably, back to the mirror.   
By the third day she didn’t have any more tears, her voice was hoarse, and she’d broken practically everything she owned. She couldn’t sleep anymore, and anyway she was sick of the nightmares.   
She brewed a pot of coffee, managed to find a mug that was still in one piece. She filled it and sat down on the couch. She sipped and the drink soothed her; there was something grounding about the warmth, the acidity. As she drank the chaos in her brain very gradually began to quiet, and by the time the mug was empty she was able to rationalize. The first thing she considered was retribution. She wanted them to pay, all of them. Cops were out of the question; they were part of the problem. Even if Henry and his father weren’t close she knew Sheriff Bowers would do whatever he had to to keep the odds stacked in his favor. Not that it mattered now anyway. She had showered. Any DNA that was on her body was long gone.   
_Maybe_ , she thought, _I could do it myself._ She wanted to. Hell she’d almost prefer it. But Henry had several advantages: 1) His father was the Sheriff, meaning any form of severe retaliation could result in a police investigation. 2) He had friends. They were always with him, driving him around, trailing after him like an adoring harem. Even with pure anger fueling her she couldn’t take four of them. This had already been verified. 3) Henry was insane; bat-shit crazy, certifiably psychotic. Nothing she could possibly do would make any sort of an impact. Nothing would prove her point because he was incapable of understanding. If she hurt him he would heal, and then he would hurt her worse, of that much she was sure. She sighed, poured another cup of coffee and blew the steam from its surface. Realistically she knew she couldn’t retaliate. There was no way to do it safely. She had no one in her corner backing her. But she also knew she couldn’t keep living in Derry like nothing had happened. The idea of coexisting with them, the possibility of Henry coming around the bar again, even just seeing that fucking Trans Am cruising around town, was too much for her to handle. She’d be living in constant fear, and with Henry confrontation of some kind seemed pretty much inevitable. The only power she had, she realized, was the power to leave. At first the idea of Henry driving her from her home made her sick. But the more she sat with the idea the more appeal it gained. She’d lived in Derry her whole life. And maybe it was the only home she knew. But that didn’t mean that it had ever brought her anything beyond hardship, struggle, and mistreatment. The only fond memories she had of Derry were from back when she was little, before her dad had started using. And those memories were good because of him; truthfully they could have happened anywhere. Why insist on staying in a place where her negative experiences far outweighed the positive ones? Just to prove a point? Especially when the only future she had there would almost certainly hold more misery for her.   
She considered everything carefully. The only loose end seemed to be the question of her sanity. This, she realized, might be a problem; a problem that could potentially follow her no matter where she went. She leaned into the couch, drummed her fingers against her knee. She wanted music. For the first time in days she was able to think about what might feel good, comforting. She got up and wrestled through her records until she found what she wanted. ‘Germfree Adolescence: X-ray Spex.’ She lifted the needle of her Crosley onto the vinyl. It played and Dana could focus. She considered her hallucinations from start to finish. She wasn’t an expert in psychology by any means, but she knew the basics; she’d aced psych class in high school. She knew that most people with paranoid schizophrenia were not aware that what they were seeing was out of the ordinary. She also knew that their delusions tended to vary, whereas hers seemed to be consistent. She also remembered a thing or two about PTSD: that it could lay dormant for years, only to manifest in times of extreme stress or trauma. Why the clown? There didn’t seem to be any significance to it that she could uncover. Still, the sudden onset made sense: her anxiety began to rage right around the time kids started disappearing in Derry. This could have been a trigger of some sort, even if it didn’t register it at the time. After all her childhood hadn’t exactly been a cakewalk. It had gotten worse once Henry had shown up with his friends, intimidating her and disrespecting her wishes. She’d seen the gimp after her interaction with Sheriff Bowers, a man who had assaulted her at 18 and gas lighted her for his own self-preservation when she’d gone to the police for help. She’d never really tried to explain it before, maybe because she was too busy self-medicating to focus. Now the idea didn’t seem so outlandish. Brains were weird things. Quite possibly this clown was something hers had invented to keep her from focusing on the real threats to her sanity. _Moving might help,_ she considered. _New place. I could start over; start everything from scratch. And if I get to where I’m going and I’m still seeing shit, then I’ll get help…like psychological help._ She wasn’t sure where she’d go but she knew one thing: she wasn’t going to abandon Beverly. She couldn’t leave the girl to fend for herself; her father abused her and she knew that it wouldn’t be long before Henry set his sick sights on her himself. _Fuck that,_ she thought angrily. She remembered what Beverly had said once about an Aunt in Portland; she could drop her there on her way out of town. _I’ll at least give her the option._   
After a bit she rose, tiptoed carefully around the shards of her anger, and took the broom from the kitchen. She picked up all the big pieces and swept the smaller ones. Once it was safe to walk she made her way back to the kitchen. In the cabinet closest the window was the old Cafe Castello coffee tin that held her savings. Dana didn’t like banks; the concept of a roomful of old men presiding over her money didn’t sit right with her. She kept her savings in cash for quick accessibility. She counted the money once, twice, thumbs grazing the soft green paper as the numbers climbed, just shy of three grand. It was a good, secure amount. She counted $325 and put it aside for last month’s rent.   
On the fourth day she called a shop to tow her car and give her a price estimate. The mechanic pulled up in his truck as Dana watched from her window, sliding on her boots and positioning her hair to cover as much of her face as possible. She looked better each day but her face was far from healed. The bruises had shifted in their hues from blues and purples to yellow-greens, lightening some areas but darkening others. And she wasn’t ready to talk about it, to address it, least of all not with a stranger.   
“The hell happen to ya?” asked the mechanic with about as much subtlety as an atomic bomb. He was a stout man of about fifty and had grease and condiment stains down the front of his shirt. He looked over her car, whistled. “You pissed someone off pretty good, didn’t ya?”  
Dana ignored him. “How much for new tires and paint?”   
He looked at her curiously, scrunched up his cauliflower nose. “You get in a fight or somethin’?”  
“Just give me quote,” she said dryly.   
He shrugged. “Well shit, might be easier just trade this old hunk in. I could buy it off ya for scrap and you could get yourself a real nice little-”  
“I don’t want a new car. I want you to fix this one. How much?”  
The man gave her a funny look, took a step back, and swept his eyes over the car. “Someone really did a number on it...”  
“Yeah no shit,” Dana muttered under her breath.  
“I’ll give you a good price on the tires. Charge you $200 for a full set-”  
“That’s not a good price, that’s a terrible price,” Dana interrupted. “Standard set of Goodyear’s costs 90 bucks. Even if you factor in labor you’re still ripping me off.”  
He raised eyebrows at her, startled.   
“I’ll pay you $125 for tires, that’s including labor. I don’t need all season, just give me something that’ll get me through until winter.”  
“Alright,” he said slowly. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or impressed, nor did she care.  
“In terms of paint color: this is a 72’ so I doubt you’ll have access to the exact color—I think it’s called ‘Lemon Custard’ if I’m not mistaken—but I’d like it as close as you can get it. I want the black stripes on the sides touched up too which I know is a pain in the ass to do so I think $400 sounds fair for everything, don’t you?”  
He opened his mouth to answer, lifting a finger to pause her, as though she’d forgotten something.  
“That includes the tow,” she said before he could speak.  
He stood dumbfounded, staring at her as though she was speaking a language he’d never heard.  
“Well?” she asked, hands on her hips.  
“Y-yeah I guess four hundred be ok.”  
“Cool. How soon can you have it ready?”  
“Well I’ll have to see-”  
“Cause I need it in a week. If you start tonight that shouldn’t be a problem right?”  
“Well it shouldn’t but-”  
“Good. I’ll be by on Thursday.”


	20. Someone Else's Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bev and Dana make a plan...  
> Chapter title song by The Fastbacks  
> enjoy!

It was nighttime and Dana sat on the fire escape steps having a cigarette. The smoke curled around her, white, silky contrast against the dark. She looked down at her legs. The scratches were healing. The thickest scabs on her knees and elbows weren’t as brittle as they had been even a day ago. She touched her face.  
She could see through her eye again, the swelling almost completely gone and her lip was on the mend as well. The bruising was there but the colors had softened and the abrasions on her cheek and chin had closed.  
She’d spent the day going through her apartment, packing some but mostly getting rid of things. It wound up being more work than she’d thought but she managed to get it all done. Her smashing spree had eliminated a good deal of belongings which made it easier. Almost everything she owned ended up in the dumpster. As soon as she’d made the decision to leave Derry everything she owned became utterly unnecessary. Things that used to comfort her now seemed cumbersome and overwhelming; every load she hauled outside brought her one step closer to departure. The furniture would stay behind. She wasn’t worried about the deposit and it wasn’t like she planned on leaving a forwarding address, or that she had one to leave for that matter. The only things she planned to bring with her were a few clothes, record and cassette player, and her music collection. Still Dana had gone through every single album, every tape, selecting only the best, most vital ones to make the trip. She couldn’t bring herself to toss the castoffs so she set a few aside for Terry, put the rest in a box marked “FREE STUFF” and set it outside on the curb.  
Now she was tired and her feet hurt. A beer sounded good but she was scared to have one. It was too soon and she knew it. So instead she smoked. The cigarette tasted good but really she had another agenda. Smoking late at night had become a bat-signal of sorts, a means of drawing Beverly out of her apartment. It was as though the girl had a sixth sense for nicotine. And tonight would prove no different. Not three puffs into her second cigarette she heard a soft groan from Beverly’s apartment door as it drew back, and the girl slipped outside, barefoot and clad in her gigantic sleep shirt. She sat down next to Dana without saying anything. When Dana turned to greet her, she almost didn’t recognize her. Beverly looked like she’d aged five years in five days, her face was thin and pale and there were bags under her wide eyes as though she hadn’t been sleeping. Her hair looked limp and muted, not its usual fiery red mess of waves. She reached out a hand, index and middle fingers propped out in a V-shape and Dana passed her the cigarette. Beverly took an impossibly long drag and released a jet of smoke into the night.  
“You look terrible,” Dana said, worried.  
“So do you. How you are you doing?”  
“Better,” she answered. “I’m doing better. I’m really sorry you had to see me like that,” she said honestly. “But I’m glad you got there when you did.”  
Beverly looked at her. “You are?”  
“Yeah.”  
“So…you’re happy you didn’t…”  
“I don’t know about happy. But yeah, I’m glad to be alive. I am. So thanks, for doing what you did.”  
Beverly smiled. She still looked tired but it was nice to see genuine happiness on her face. “It was mostly Eddie, and Mike…but you’re welcome.”  
“So I know why I look like shit,” Dana said, lighting another cigarette for herself. “Why do you?”  
Beverly shrugged, tried to act nonchalant but it wasn’t convincing. “I haven’t been sleeping too well. I had a fight with my friends.”  
“Why’s that?”  
“Because they’re a bunch of fucking sissies.”  
Dana raised an eyebrow. “Harsh. What’d they do?”  
“It’s what they didn’t do.”  
“Which is?”  
Beverly shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got other stuff to think about anyway.”  
Dana flicked embers from her cigarette and watched them fall through the grating.  
“Well on that note, I wanted to talk to you about something.”  
“What is it?” Beverly scuffed her shoes together nervously.  
Dana took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot in the past few days about what to do with myself, I mean, my life. And what I decided is that I can’t stay here. I can’t live in Derry. Not with him—with them. I just…I can’t do it. And you shouldn’t either.”  
Beverly stared curiously. “What are you saying?”  
“I’m saying we go. I’m saying we get the fuck out of here.”  
She watched Beverly’s face, waited for a response.  
“Where would we go?” she asked. The vulnerability in her voice made her sound her age for once.  
“Do you still wanna go to your aunt’s house? My cars in the shop, it’ll be good by the end of the week. I’ll take you, if you want to go.”  
Beverly’s face clouded. “Where will you go?”  
“I’m not really sure,” she said, stabbing the butt of her cigarette out against the rail. “Just somewhere not here. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But I can’t stay here. And I don’t wanna leave you. You can take a few days, think it over-”  
“I’ll go.”  
“Are you sure?” There wasn’t a trace of uncertainty in her tone but Dana felt obliged to ask.  
“Yeah,” Beverly said. “I’m sure. I wanna go.”  
Dana lit another cigarette. “Can you be ready Friday?”  
“Yeah. But we gotta leave while my dad’s at work.”  
Dana nodded. “Ok.”  
Beverly’s face had more color now than when she’d sat down. Her freckles blossomed like fireworks and her eyes sparkled with gratitude. “I owe you,” she said sincerely.  
Dana shook her head. “You don’t owe me. You deserve to be happy. We both do. I mean fuck, don’t we?”


	21. Messed Up Mixed Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't thank god for small favors just yet...  
> chapter title song by Sado-Nation   
> enjoy ;)

 

It took all day Thursday for Dana to work up the nerve to call Harry, the owner of the Alley Cat. Guilt and anxiety circled in her guts and her hands shook as she dialed his number. She had never called him at home. But she wanted to give him the news directly, not burden poor awkward Terry with the task. Beyond that Harry had been her employer for two years. He deserved to know straight from the source.  
He asked her where the hell she’d been for the last five days. She skirted the question but Harry, for what it was worth, was oddly intuitive. His tone lightened and he asked if she was ok. For some reason the question made her want to cry. She blurted out her resignation crudely, stammered apologies, mouth tripping over her words as she spoke. “It’s ok Dana,” he said, sounding more paternal than she’d ever heard him sound. “It’s alright. I understand.” He said he could come pick up her last paycheck on Thursday. She waited until she’d hung up the phone to cry.  
When she woke the next morning and went into the kitchen Dana found a small scrap of paper that had been slipped under her door. It was a note from Beverly, and its content was brief:   
_I called my aunt. Friday 8 AM. I’ll be ready._  
Dana folded the paper in half and set it on the table. It was early for her but her mind was clear and she felt energized. She walked to the Alley Cat, taking back roads and side streets the whole way. The walk made her heart race but she stayed alert and aware of her surroundings and made it to the bar without incident.   
Her goodbye to Terry proved to be a bit rougher than she’d anticipated. He didn’t ask her where she’d been or what had happened. His knobby Adams apple bobbed and his jaw trembled as he reached out an open hand. “Been a pleasure working with ya,” he said in warbled, voice. “I’m gonna miss ya.”   
“I’ll miss you too Terry.” Dana pressed her scabbed palm to his sweaty one and locked fingers. “Thank you for being a good guy.”  
“Maybe we get a beer some time?” He smiled kind but sad and she didn’t have the heart to tell him she was leaving more than just the Alley Cat behind, that she was leaving Derry for good. Instead she returned his smile and said, “Yeah man, let’s do that.”  
She gave him the box of records and tapes she’d saved for him, classic rock n’ roll stuff she knew he loved. His face lit like a kid on Christmas morning and his cheeks were we wet when he accepted the gift, too excited to question its meaning.   
Dana looked around the place one more time at the dusty booths wrapped in cheap red velvet upholstery, checkered floors caked with dirt and grime that disappeared when the lights dimmed, the cityscape of liquor bottles behind the faded counter, and the sign, slender hand with red fingernails that clutched the rose and glowed jelly bean tones of ruby, emerald and topaz. It was an image that had always made her feel like she was home in a way. She hoped Harry would do the right thing and leave the place to Terry in his will. She had a good feeling about it.

 

By 11 she was on her way to the garage. It wasn’t far from the bar and she could take alleys most of the way there. She kept her head down and her eyes up, sweeping her path, sharply monitoring her surroundings. When a powerful engine roared somewhere in the distance Dana’s blood froze and she quickly ducked behind a telephone pole as a car pulled into the alley. She peered around the corner ever so slightly, and was relieved to see a middle aged man driving a corvette peel past. She’d forgotten to breathe. Now she took in air quickly as her heart rammed against her ribcage. She tried to slow it, to regulate her breathing. She stepped around the other side of the pole, placing a hand on it to steady herself. Her eyes raked the faded fliers and gnarled staples the layered its wood. It was a casual glance, but something plastered to the pole caught her eye, and for a second she didn’t believe what she saw. She narrowed her eyes, took a step closer, brought her face close enough to study it. On a fresh, crisp piece of paper, stapled right on top, was a sign that read “MISSING: PATRICK HOCKSTETTER, 17 YEARS OLD.” Beneath the type was a picture. She almost didn’t recognize him at first without that shit-eating grin splitting his face, but there was no denying it. His face looked innocent enough, even handsome to some extent. But there was something off about the boy’s eyes. In her head he was ‘Coyote Boy’. Now she knew his name.   
Dana went numb. It started first in her face, a warm choking feeling that stretched through her eye sockets and tugged at her nostrils, gathering as a hot lump in her throat. Her kneecaps shook. Just seeing his face again and knowing he could be dead made her feel sick and happy and horrified at the same time. And then it struck her that if someone could take this kid, tall and lean with a psychotic streak the span of a jet trail and make him gone and forgotten, what could they do to a kid like Beverly? Or Eddie with a fannypack? Or stuttering Bill Denborough? If it was so easy to take someone so sinister, so violent, and make them vanish into thin air then no one was safe. Her next thought made her briefly question her sanity again: she felt she was being mocked on a personal level, that this person, whoever they were, knew just how bad she’d been hurt by this kid, Patrick—that they knew how powerless she’d been, how helpless she’d felt at this kid’s mercy as he bent her over, restrained her for his friend’s sport, cheered him on, yearned for a turn to probe her with his own parts—that they knew all this, and they were showing her how easy it was to get rid of him, as if to say This is what I think of your fears. They are nothing to me. I can take them away or bring them to your door. You are still powerless, still helpless. Suddenly an image of the gimp sprang to mind, the way it had used her own memories against her as it pinned her to the floor in her apartment and raked its shiny fingers over her throat. Then she pictured the clown, it’s buoyant, grinning face and acid eyes dancing with glee as it watched her attack from the back seat of the Trans Am. There was a link between them all, she could feel the connections coming together, solidifying. She tried to swallow these thoughts. This has nothing to do with you, she told herself rationally. That asshole probably just pissed off the wrong person.. She peeled her eyes from the flyer and focused them on the speckled cement before her. She could be glad this Patrick kid was missing or suffering or dead. And that didn’t make her a bad person. It made her human. She took a deep breath and kept walking.


	22. Living In A Coffin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shit has officially hit the fan. Enjoy the ride >:)  
> chapter title song by Lost Cherries

Her car was smooth and flawless like lemon meringue filling with two long, black licorice streaks along the sides. They’d waxed it after painting, she could tell. It looked significantly nicer than it had when her father had given it to her six years ago.   
She raked her fingertips across the finish: dry and glassy-smooth, not even the slightest bit of tack to it. They’d vacuumed the interior too, rubbed down the leather seats to make them shiny, even polished the mirrors. Dana hadn’t expected such attention to detail and quality work, especially after her interaction with the mechanic. When he lumbered out, dewy and slick with grease she was ready for him to demand more money.   
He didn’t. She eyed him warily, began to open her wallet. But he shook his head, gently placing his puffy hand over it.  
“No charge,” he croaked, droopy eyes downcast.   
“I don’t understand...” she began slowly.  
The man repeated himself. “I’m not chargin’ you.”  
Dana looked at him, lost. “Why?”   
“Didn’t know you were Roy Matthews’ kid. Me and him, we used to work on cars together in the 60’s. He was a good, good man.” He twisted the grease rag in his hands. “I was real sorry to hear about his passin’. Never did get a chance to pay my respects to the man. Figured this would come close. Call it a gift you like. Chargin’ you just doesn’t sit right with me.”  
Dana frowned. “I can’t accept this. How are you gonna pay your workers if you don’t charge me?”  
She thrust the stack of bills out but the mechanic shook his head and took a slow, heavy step back. “Did this job myself. This is my shop. Ain’t no one taking a pay cut but me. And I’m alright with that.”  
He was stubborn to the end, refused Dana’s money until she admitted defeat and tucked it back into her wallet. He held the keys out to her and she thanked him, shook his hand, slid into driver’s seat. She squeezed the steering wheel in both hands, curling her fingers around the worn leather. The key slid into the ignition like butter and the Gremlin woke with a low purr. 

Dana felt content as she pulled into her spot at the complex. It was comforting to know that she’d be parking for the last time. She smiled with relief, turning off the engine and stepping out. She crossed the lot to the stairs and had already started to climb before she noticed something unsettling. Beverly’s dad’s truck, it was there, wedged crookedly into its spot. And it shouldn’t have been. Dana knew his schedule by now, he was loud and gruff and it was hard not to hear him, especially after almost two years of sharing a wall. He worked as a janitor during the school year and in the summer he picked up shifts at the canning factory on the outskirts of town, left every morning at 7 to make the drive. She checked her watch. It was barely noon. She swallowed, casting a guarded look at the truck before she quickened her pace up the steps. She reached the third floor and crossed to Beverly’s door. She didn’t know why her father wasn’t at work but she didn’t like it. Her plan was to knock and listen for movement on the other side. If he answered she could make up an excuse about having some of their mail or needing to borrow something, either way it would give her an excuse to see inside. Her heart raced as she raised her fist to the door. She didn’t have to knock. It was ajar. Her palms sweat, needles pricked at the base of her spine and her face went numb like it had when she’d seen Patrick’s face on the flier. She put her hand to the door, and pushed. It opened wide with a long, mournful creak. She stepped in. The apartment was dark and stuffy and wreaked of cigarettes, sweat, bourbon-soaked upholstery. The first thing that caught her attention was an end table on its side, cheap particleboard splintered. Beside it was a broken lamp. There were glass and ceramic shards littering the ground. She crouched and picked up a sliver of green ceramic, speckled with dark liquid. Blood; just a few small drops, but enough to leave a trail. They lead her past the kitchen, down the hall, stopping just outside the bathroom door. There was a tiny, red puddle in front of it, faint bloody handprints on the sides of the doorway molding. She could see a rose glow reflected in the tile underneath.   
“Oh fuck,” she whispered, grabbing the handle and turning. The door swung open and there, sprawled across the bathroom floor in a dense, crimson pool, was Beverly’s father, a gash in his head so deep a little ivory skull peeked through. Lying next to him was the cracked porcelain toilet lid, equally bloody. It was a gruesome sight but Dana felt relief. The blood wasn’t Beverly’s it was her father’s. That was something. But where was she? Dana checked behind the shower curtain half expecting to find the girl crouched and mute with shock, but it was empty. She turned franticly back to the doorway and collided with someone. She gasped as her heart leapt to her throat, grabbed for the shower curtain to keep from stumbling back into the bathtub. Bill Denborough stared back at her, green eyes wide with terror, thin frame trembling. He offered her his hand. She took it and steadied herself.   
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she asked, breathlessly.   
“I-I c-c-came t-to se B-Bev.” His eyes poured over her dad’s still form. “D-did y-yy-you-”  
“I didn’t do this.”   
“Is h-he?...”  
“I think so.” She could feel for a pulse but it was pretty obvious. Beverly’s father was dead.   
“Th-there’s so much blood...” Bill said meekly.   
“Don’t look at it.” Dana put a hand on his shoulder, steering him firmly out of the room. She closed the door behind them. “We’re gonna make sure she’s not in here ok?”  
Bill nodded.  
“Stay behind me.” Her room seemed like a logical place to start. Dana went first, small quiet steps leading. “Beverly?” she called gently. She pushed the door open wider and stepped in. She saw it immediately upon entering, the message scrolled across the walls and ceiling in jagged red letters, impossibly huge, imposing.   
_YOU DIE IF YOU TRY._   
Bill crept up beside her, his mouth gaped, breath crashing heavily from it as his eyes trailed the ceiling.  
“Please tell me you can see that,” Dana said faintly.  
“I see it.” His voice was low and steady. He stared at the message a moment longer before dashing off down the hallway.   
“Hey!” Dana yelled. “Where are you going?”  
“To get Bev!”  
She took chase, grabbed him before he could make it out the door. He shrugged her off, lurched forward again but she was quick, throwing herself into the door and forcing it shut.  
“What are you doing?” he cried frantically. “I h-have to go!”  
“Not until you tell me what’s going on!” She was yelling too. Her brain was in chaos she wanted answers, needed them.  
Bill groaned. “Th-th-th-there’s n-no time! I have to g-get the others, we h-have to go!”  
“Go where? Where is Beverly?” she demanded.  
“N-Neibolt!” he screeched back.  
“Neibolt? What, that shitty old house?”  
He nodded.  
“Why would she be there?”  
“Because,” he Bill said, drawing in a breath. “th-that’s where It lives!”  
Dana eyed him strangely. His words left a weird feeling in her guts. “Where who lives?”  
“N-Not who, _It._ It took Bev and I—we—h-have to-” he stopped, his words trailing into silence. “Wait,” he began carefully. He stared into her eyes, his face so intense it scared her. “w-what did you mean w-when you asked i-i-if I could see it?”  
Dana didn’t want to answer. She wanted to be crazy. She wanted to go back to ten minutes ago when she was calm and optimistic. She couldn’t. “I’ve been seeing things lately,” she began carefully. “Weird things. And they don’t make sense. I thought I was losing it. There’s this-”  
“Clown,” he finished. He didn’t ask. He didn’t have to.   
Dana took a step back instinctively, the words themselves seemed threatening confirmed by someone else’s lips. “How’d you know that?”   
Bill straightened up. He was looking at her differently now. His tone was sympathetic. “W-we’ve all seen it. It’s been taking kids. It t-took Georgie. I-It killed Bev’s dad-”  
“No,” Dana interrupted. “I don’t think It did this. Look,” she said, pointing to the toppled table and shattered lamp. “it started out here.” There was a beer can on the floor a couple of feet away. “Her dad was waiting for her,” she murmured. “He didn’t go to work. He must’ve known...”  
“Kn-known what?”  
“I was gonna take her out of here, to her aunt’s. He must’ve found out somehow.” She took a few steps down the hallway toward the bathroom. “She went in there to hide from him.” She ran her fingertips over the door’s side. It was splintered and frayed. “He kicked in the door, that son of a bitch. And she hit him. Good for her.” She paused. Her eyes flashed over the scene as she tried to piece it all together, everything. Her mind had started to form connections again and for the first time she left it happen. She didn’t push them away or refute them or distract herself. She honed in deeper, tried to understand the patterns, trace the similarities to their roots. “That’s why It came,” she whispered at last. “It came when she was afraid—that’s when It got her. She was alone and scared and It knew somehow. It fucking knew. Is that what It does? It doesn’t create, It just uses what you have—what you give It?”  
Bill nodded. “I-I th-think so. W-we can stop It but I n-need to get the others.”   
“I’ll drive.”

They flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Dana lead, boots thudding hard on the iron. Bill was close behind her. “B-Bev said your car was b-busted.”  
“It was but I had it fixed-” Dana stopped so abruptly Bill crashed into her, his boney shoulder jabbing into her arm. She stared saucer-eyed at the sickening sight of her car. The words were back, dark and hateful, rendered with perfect clarity across the freshly painted surface: _DIE CUNT. BITCH. DYKE. WHORE._ It was as though they’d never been covered.   
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Dana murmured in disbelief. She bent slightly to check the tires: slashed open, flat. The Gremlin was resting on its treads; there was no way she could drive it. “This isn’t happening,” she whispered.   
As her fingers circled the handle a sickening screech filled her ears, a high, sticky, scream all too familiar. She pulled and the door clicked open releasing a steady stream of round, red balloons. They drifted cheerfully from the car’s interior, one after another after another. Bill took a step closer to Dana, his cheeks flushed with panic as the last of the balloons cleared the car and floated off into the parking lot.   
“It d-doesn’t want you to h-help us,” Bill said gravely.   
“I see that.” Dana swallowed. “I can’t drive this.”  
“Do have a b-b-bike?”  
She sighed angrily. “Yeah but the tires are fucked.” She raked her hands through her hair and tugged, tried to think, refocus. “Ok,” she started. “you, take your bike, go round up your friends. I’m gonna figure something out—I’ll meet you there—but wait for me.” She gripped his shoulders firmly, giving them a little shake to emphasize her point. “You don’t go in that house until I get there, ok? Promise me.”  
“B-but-”  
She shook him harder. “Say I promise.” Her wild eyes locked onto his, pleading.  
“I p-promise.”


	23. Smiling Like A Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One from Henry's POV. This was really tough to write. It's hard trying to get into the headspace of someone so fucked up. Kinda makes you feel gross. But I'm happy with how it came out so it was worth it haha. hope you like it too :)  
> Chapter title song is by Motorhead because it's definitely more fitting...I can't think of a song better suited for Henry...plus that asshole doesn't deserve a female-fronted punk title anyway lol

He’d always wanted to drive this car. Whenever Belch picked him up he’d wish it were him behind the wheel, fingers wound around the stick shift, powerful hum of the engine vibrating through his bones. It was ok having a driver but at the end of the day Henry would always want to be in control, in the ‘driver’s seat,’ so to speak. And here he was, steering wheel clamped in his hands, Motorhead blaring through the speakers as he cruised. It seemed so obvious now, so easy that he wondered why it had taken him so long to do it. Still, he felt a tinge of regret when his eye caught a glimpse of Vic’s lifeless face in the rear view mirror, eyes wide and unblinking, colorless skin, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water. His fair hair was plastered to his forehead with coagulated crimson goo. Belch sat in the passenger seat; his thick body slumped over a little more each time Henry pumped the breaks. He’d died with his eyes closed and unlike Victor Henry had no sympathy for him. It was his damn fault. If he’d just kept his mouth shut and done as he’d been told they might both still be alive. But no, he’d started in with the questions right away: _Whose blood is that Henry? What’d you do Henry? What are we gonna do Henry? Shouldn’t we go to the cops though, Henry?_ Henry rolled his eyes, sneering. “Fuckin’ pussy,” he muttered under his breath.  
He’d told Belch to shut up, shut up and just drive the fucking car please and thank you very fucking much. But Belch just wouldn’t let up, sweating and blubbering on about cops and jail time and accessories to murder, until Henry just couldn’t hear anymore of it. Not that Belch’s words scared him. They _annoyed him_ , rather. Before Belch could say another sniveling syllable Henry had his blade an inch deep in his throat. A smiled flickered across his face as he thought of the geyser of blood that jetted from it.  
That was when Vic had intervened. He always did have this soft spot for Belch. Hell they’d known each other since kindergarten. He even took a couple defensive wounds to the hands before Henry finally managed to get a deep slash in at his ceratoid artery. He died faster than Belch, who ended up needing a couple more, good pokes before he stopped breathing; mostly to the neck, a few to the stomach just for the hell of it. There had been none of the reluctance he’d felt when he did his old man, no fear at all. The car reeked of iron and shit but Henry didn’t mind, even found it kind of gratifying in a way. Grounding.  
He turned the volume up on the stereo. His cool eyes poured over the streets and sidewalks, searching. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for but he had a feeling he’d know when he found it. And he could do this all night, cruise around in the Trans Am that was now, for all intents and purposes, his. All his. He grinned, shaking his head. “Lotta memories in this car, am I right boys?” He glanced from Belch to Victor, their lifeless bodies silent in response. “Yeah,” he went on, digging his nails into the steering wheel. “We had some good times in here.” One in particular stood out from the rest in his mind: the night he’d taught that dyke bartender a lesson in the parking lot. That had been his first glimpse of it, of the feeling, the satisfaction that accompanied taking what he wanted with no consideration for outcome. He’d thought it might be hard that night too, but then when the time actually came it was easy, so easy and fun, really truly fun; no guilt, no hesitation. He’d wanted to do more to her then, would have if it hadn’t been for Belch. He’d stopped him then, talked him out of it just like he’d tried to tonight. She was unconscious and quiet and she’d looked so pretty. She was pretty—beautiful even—and crazier than a bat out of hell. Henry knew she had more that he could take. He could think of 1,000 other ways to break her and he ached to try. He licked his lips and tasted copper. The crotch of his pants was tightening. His pulse beat hot and sharp in his neck, and it was suddenly all too clear what he was looking for. Maybe she hadn’t told anyone about the attack, for all he knew she’d take it to her grave. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He wanted more and he didn’t need an excuse. He’d try her apartment first. If she wasn’t there he’d go to her work.  
A stoplight flashed yellow and Henry slowed to a stop. This was no time to get pulled over for being sloppy. He tapped the wheel manically as he waited for the light to change. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed movement coming up along beside him on the sidewalk. He turned over his shoulder to look, catching a glimpse of not one, not two, but six losers on their bikes, peddling as fast as their spindly legs could carry them. They were so focused on getting where they were going that they flew right past the Trans Am without even noticing it. They rode off furiously, took a right down Neibolt Street, and disappeared. Henry didn’t see the Marsh girl but six out of seven wasn’t bad. There was still fun to be had with six, plenty of fun. He owed them, all of them. He’d liked Belch and Vic well enough but he liked killing them more. It felt good. _Imagine how good it’ll feel to kill someone you hate,_ a breathy voice whispered in response. He wasn’t sure if it came from his mind or outside of it. It didn’t matter. Slowly he eased his foot off the break, revving the engine.  
“Whaddya say boys?” he rasped into the mirror. “She’s not goin’ anywhere. We got time?” Vic’s glassy eyes stared back at him. Belch’s neck oozed blood. “Yeah. Sure we do.”


	24. Girl On The Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dana faces her fears. This chapter title, a song by Honey Bane, is what I named the story after. I referenced it in an early chapter as well. Give it a listen if you haven't heard it. 
> 
> SIDE NOTE:  
> I am officially done writing this story. Yikes. Almost a year in the making. 93 single-spaced pages. Feeling weird but good. Got six more chapter to post after this including the epilogue :0

Rusty tools sticky with dust clattered to the floor as Dana upturned the utility box she’d found in Beverly’s apartment. She wrestled through the pile, flinging wrenches, hammers, tape measures. She snatched a Philip’s screwdriver from the mess, tucking it into her belt loop. Next a roll of electric tape. No wire strippers so she settled for a heavy duty box cutter. It would tougher to use but she had to try, she’d wasted enough time already looking for the keys to the truck. She’d checked both bedrooms, the kitchen, torn up the couch cushions, even gone so far as to dig through Beverly’s father’s blood soaked pockets and nothing. It was as though the keys had ceased to exist. Luckily, Dana knew a way around that.  
The truck was a Chevy two-door, 75’ if she had to guess. She circled around behind it, hopped up onto the trunk ledge, and peered inside. In the trunk, as she’d suspected, was a spare tire, set of tire chains, and a tire iron. She grabbed the tire iron, jumped back to the ground and approached the driver’s side window. She inspected it hastily, put her hand to the pane and knocked. Healthy glass, good enough for her. She drew back her foot, raised the tire iron over her right shoulder, closed her eyes and swung. She couldn’t have asked for a cleaner break; sharp shards rained down on the seat, showering it with jagged snowflakes. She snaked an arm through the opening, careful not to snag it on anything sharp, and unlocked the door. She glanced around to make sure no one had heard. The lot was empty. She was grateful. She dropped the tire iron and climbed inside, sweeping glass from the seat with her forearm. It had been awhile since she’d done this. Just like riding a bike, she willed. Her dad had shown her when she was a kid, let her try it once on an old beater he’d picked up in a trade. But her mind was sharp with adrenaline and as she took the screwdriver from her belt loop muscle memory took over. She unwound the screws from under the steering column, dropping her head to get a better angle. Once there was enough of an opening she inserted the screwdriver and pried until the plastic snapped and the covering fell to her feet, exposing a clump of colorful wires. Her mind raced, thin fingers weaving in and out of the tangle, tugging delicately at each grouping of strands until she found a familiar-looking cluster. It was a grouping of three, red, yellow and gray, connected by a black cap; one wire for the ignition battery, one for the ignition itself, and one for the starter. She wrestled it free and detached the cap. So far so good. Dana was fairly certain the battery wire was red. She couldn’t remember if she wanted the yellow or the gray. She searched her memory bank, tried to picture the lesson as vividly as she could. _“This guy we save for last,”_ she recalled her dad saying as he sorted the wires skillfully. _“This one here. Red and gray save the day, but always wait for the yellow fellow.”_ She’d repeated it back to him: _Always wait for the yellow fellow._  
The next part would be tricky without a wire stripper. She took the box cutter from her pocket, extended the blade, and very carefully began cutting away at the red insulation. If she gouged too deep she’d cut into the wire and that would be the end of it. She used her thumb to guide the tip of the blade to the shallowest depth and chipped away until she saw copper. She did the same to the gray wire and delicately wound the exposed strands together. She secured them with a twist of electrical tape, leaving a little room at the end for the copper to peek out. Then she took hold of the yellow wire, the starter wire. It was live, she knew, and if she stripped too deep, even grazed it with her finger, she could electrocute herself. She dried her sweaty palms on her shorts, held her breath, and very timidly began to cut into the casing. After what felt like an eternity she’d cleared enough of the insulation to expose the starter wire. She wiped the sweat from her eyelids. Her breathing began to regulate. Now was the moment of truth. She took the joined battery wires in her right hand and the starter wire in her left. Carefully, she eased them towards each other until the wires touched, and a bright, crackling spark jolted the truck to life. Dana could have cried. She revved the engine once twice, three times, just to be certain she wouldn’t stall. She disconnected the starter wire, threw the truck into reverse, and tore out of the lot. Asphalt dust curdled the air in her wake.  
She tried not to think as she drove, swinging the car and corners, hands white-knuckled around the shifter as she barreled through red lights, stop signs, crosswalks. Thinking would only make her scared, and there was no time for fear now.  
The streets were oddly quiet for summer and she was glad for it. She hoped she would beat the others there, though it didn’t seem likely; rewiring the car had taken a fair amount of time and she’d already been set back searching for the keys. She hoped desperately that the kids had waited for her, that Bill had kept his word. She wasn’t sure what they’d find in that house and she didn’t want to take any chances.  
Her heart began to accelerate as she neared Neibolt Street, hot blood pounded in her eyes and throat. She could see the street sign in the distance. It grew closer and closer until she could read its letters with complete clarity. The house stood dark and silent on its pale lot, the grass surrounding it crispy, the trees bare and diseased. She took a right, slowed to a stop. She kept the battery wires connected and the truck running. It seemed safer that way. The house loomed over her as she approached the façade. Boarded windows soggy with rain and rot glared angry through lidless eyes and the crooked stairs unfurled down from the front door like a dislocated jaw stretched open, anxious to eat. There was no sign of the boys but as she got closer she could see their bikes. They were lying to the right of the front steps, sheathed in the tall, stiff grass.  
“Fuck." Her eyes searched the lot for them in the off chance that they had decided to wait around back. What she saw instead was a car. It was parked close but obscured by weeds and the rusty chain link fence that kept Neibolt quarantined. Its electric blue paint stood stark against the dead colors surrounding it. The air in Dana’s lungs stopped mid breath. Her heart plummeted to her bowels. _Why now?_ She implored silently. _Why here?_ It didn’t make sense. If Henry had been following her she would surely would have seen him, would have heard the roar from the muscle car’s engine. Trans Ams were not known for their stealth and subtlety and neither was Henry. At this point what seemed more likely was that Henry and his friends were here first. And if she didn’t see them, then they were probably already inside. She narrowed her eyes at the car, pulse slamming at her temples as she stood frozen. The driver’s seat was empty and the door was half open. She could see shapes inside, silent, still shapes. Her blood went cold. Her pulse slowed. She walked up to the car with a sick sense of knowing, boots creeping quiet against the barren ground. She didn’t have to look inside but she did. It wasn’t Henry. It was his two remaining friends, pale and bloody and still with a smell like gutted fish and ammonia wafting off their bodies and turning the air around the Trans Am rancid. Dana cupped her hands to her mouth to keep the scream back. She forced herself to look again, look closer at the corpses. Both had been dealt deep cuts and slashes. Knife wounds. It clicked and Dana took off running back as fast as she could to the truck. She needed to get inside, now. But she needed a weapon first. She searched for the tire iron briefly, only to remember she’d discarded it in the parking lot. _Fuck! fuck! fuck!_ She saw the box cutter where she’d dropped it on the floor under the steering wheel, and grabbed it. Then she remembered the chains in the trunk. She tucked the box cutter into her boot until it was snug, yanked a chain from the truck bed, ran up the front steps, and ducked inside the house.  
She was only inside for a moment before she heard the shouts, panicked, horrified voices, deeper grunts and groans, the crash of bodies struggling against each other. She ran without thinking, without knowing, towards the sounds, following them down stone stairs as the grew louder, more urgent. The basement. She could make out words.  
“Leave him alone!” she heard clearly, as she turned the corner. “Mike! Mike!”  
It was dark but her eyes were adjusting quickly and she could see figures struggling, hear voices that drifted up from a deep, stone shaft. An old well.  
“Mike! Somebody do something!” she recognized Eddie’s high voice, raw with terror. She turned to the figures, eyes stripping away the darkness until there was no question what she was looking at. On his back, twitching and choked for breath was one of Beverly’s friends, the biggest and strongest of them, Mike. And on top of him, knees pinning his arms to the floor, shirt and light hair stained dark with his friends’ blood, was Henry. He was silent as Mike squirmed weakly beneath him, fumbling with something he had in his hands—a gun of some kind.  
“Mike! Mike!” came the boys’ voices from the well, echoing hopelessly through the hollow house. Dana raised her chain, winding it around her hands and pulling its length taught. As Henry lowered his weapon to the younger boy’s head she stepped behind him, wrapped the chain around his neck, and yanked back as hard as she could.


	25. Wild Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revenge. Hope it was worth the wait ;)  
> Chapter title is a cover of Jimi Hendrix by X

Henry made a gagging noise as he lurched off of Mike and onto his back, wiry limbs flailing, face contorting pig-like in shock. Dana pulled him in as close as she could, winding the chain further around her hands, shortening its pull. Henry tried to slither underneath it but she brought it down harder, slamming it into his neck flesh so tight his vein bulged blue beneath it. In his right hand he clutched the gun. She could see it clearly now, not a handgun like she’d thought but a cattle gun. She shifted her weight, raising the chain like the reigns of a horse, dragging Henry off the ground. When he resisted she pulled tighter and he rose just enough to rest on his hands for balance. He dropped the gun and she gave it a swift kick, sending it careening off into darkness. His arms tensed and thrashed, grabbed at the air but she stayed out of their paths, tugging him further back. Once she’d put enough distance between them and Mike’s motionless body she twisted the chain reigns and released, flinging Henry as hard as she could onto the dirt floor. He landed rough and slid back a few feet. But he was practiced at moving through pain. Before she had time to think he was on his feet, rubbing his neck and taking in violent gasps of oxygen. Dana clung to the chains thick links, side-stepped, planted herself defiantly between him and Mike.  
“Don’t you fucking touch him,” she warned.  
Henry brought his head up slowly. As he eyed her his pain-warped face softened with composure. He moved his hand from his throat, flexed his fingers.  
“You miss me, dike?” he asked, soft and low.  
Dana was silent. Seeing him, hearing him address her, made her want to cower, to curl into herself and cry, to be dead. But she would be damned if she let him know that. She took a step forward and to her surprise Henry flinched a little. Then, as though he’d just realized the absurdity his reaction, his mouth stretched into a sick, crooked smile. “Look at you,” he snickered. “All hot and bothered.” In an instant the smile was gone. His stone eyes tunneled into hers as he began to advance. “Shoulda known you’d come crawling back.” His face was as somber as his tone. He took another step. “I told you didn’t I? Told you once you got a taste you’d want more. And look at you now. Practically begging for it. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you’re pussy ain’t w-” She didn’t think, her arm swung on its own, raising the chain high and cracking it down on Henry’s jaw like a bullwhip. His head slammed to the side and he stumbled against the stone lip of the well, slapping his palms against it to steady himself. Before he could stand Dana landed another crack, heaving the chain across his ribs with all her might. Henry screamed feral, folded, hugged his waist. Dana raised her weapon again, this time aiming for his back, but Henry lifted his arm into its path before the blow could land. The chain hit his shoulder and hung limp just long enough for him to wrap his fingers around it and pull. Dana jerked forward and his fist was waiting, catching her square in the stomach. Air crashed down her throat, her lungs swelled. She felt like she was drowning. As she fell Henry thrust a calloused palm into her sternum and sent her soaring shoulder-first into the wall. Pain sizzled her ribs and chest, still tender from his last attack. She coughed, tried to catch her breath but he was on her in an instant, tugging her by the collar and slamming her hard against the limestone. She raised a fist to punch but he caught her wrist easily, pinning it above her head. Henry thrust a knee between her legs forcing them apart. He grabbed her face with his free hand; his thumb clamped her jaw in a vice-grip as his fingertips stroked her cheek with feigned tenderness.  
Up close he looked older. It was easier to see the insanity sizzling in his inky pupils. Dried blood cracked and splintered off his face as he spoke; she could smell it on his breath, see it caked under his nails. “What’d you think was gonna happen? You tryin’ to be tough again?” he asked mockingly, tightening his grip as she tried in vain to buck him off. “We both know you’re not that fuckin’ stupid. Tell the truth,” he licked his lips, baring his teeth and bringing his face within an inch of hers. “you liked it.”  
“Eat shit,” she hissed through clenched jaws.  
He released her face, drew his fist back and punched her in the mouth. He hit hard and she wasn’t expecting it; her teeth clapped and a high pitched ring rattled through her ears. Blood blossomed at her lip, re-torn. He snarled a hand in her hair, tugging her up onto her toes. “Goddamn you are fine,” he whispered admiringly. His mouth twitched. “You know I’m gonna miss this. Once I’m done…” He eyed her up and down, shaking his twitching head. “But we’re a long way off from that, got plenty of time. I’m gonna get creative with you. Gonna make you beg, make you scream.” He released her face, cocked his arm back to deal another punch. Dana moved quick, bringing her arm up to block his fist. Henry had just enough time to shoot her a look of genuine offense before she jerked forward, slamming her forehead into the bridge of his nose.  
“The hell you are.”  
Henry howled, stumbling backwards, his dry scream echoing as blood erupted from his face. As soon as the gap between them was wide enough Dana leaned forward, raised her right leg high and landed a strong, stomping kick to Henry’s chest. He flew backwards, sprawling to the ground, arm wound around his stomach. He gagged for air, choking on the blood that spilled from his nose. He tried to stand, groping at the ground, gathering fistfuls of dirt into his veiny hands. As Dana approached he flung one, releasing an assault of dust and grit into her open eyes. Dana groaned, palmed her eyes, tried desperately to open them despite the excruciating burn. She struggled blindly as Henry sauntered to his feet, swaying at first. He pushed pain from his focus, wiped the warm red syrup from his face, and charged. His shoulder slammed into her chest, spiking her ribs. Her back clapped the wall, her eyes popping open as tears rushed to expel the dust. He had her around the waist but she managed to wriggle one arm free, balling her hand into a fist and pounding it into his side once, twice, three times. Thick thuds sounded from his kidneys. With an infuriated screech he rammed his shoulder harder into her side, absorbing her weight, lifting her off the ground and heaving her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He took a few steps and lurched forward, flinging her against the stone mouth of the well. Pain crashed down her spine but Henry’s hands were around her throat before she could cry out. His grip tightened with intent. She could hear cries from the well beneath, screams of protest from Beverly’s friends. Henry’s face gleamed with excitement when he realized the boys could see—that they’d have to watch, helpless, as he strangled her. Dana dug her nails into Henry’s hands; she clawed at his fingers, crashed her heels into his calves, wrenched her body beneath his but her attacks were like gnats on a wolf, an annoyance, nothing more. His grip clenched harder. She could feel her pulse beating furiously against his hands; it threatened to burst. The ringing in her ears resumed, quiet at first but growing steadily louder with every second her brain was deprived of oxygen. She stared into his eyes: pale, unblinking, bulging in a riot of fury and exhilaration. Blood trailed from his broken nose down his neck, arms, hands. Her surroundings had begun to tunnel in slow and murky as Henry leaned in closer, whispering “Your pussy was tight last time…but I bet it’ll be tighter in a few minutes...”  
His words lit a spark in her brain. Images swarmed her eyelids, a split-second projection show of every man that had ever made her life more difficult: every patron at the bar that had ever been crude or creepy; every greasy teen that had ever catcalled her from a car window while she went about her existence; every foster father or brother that had stolen her things, beat her, tried to touch her; her own father, who put his needs—his addictions—ahead of his daughter time and time again; Sheriff Bowers, his dry ashy hands, patronizing twang, his shameless assault of a girl barely eighteen, the audacity with which he tried to justify his actions, gas-lighting her, pivoting the blame of his sick sex; Patrick—Coyote boy—his face frozen and ageless on the pristine paper flier, a way to preserve his perversion in time like an insect in amber; the rotting boy corpses in the Trans Am outside, spineless sheep that got off too easy for their crimes; Henry, his sanity squeezed dry like dirty water wrung from a sponge, his entitlement, his arrogance, clinging to hardship as justification for his monstrosities, no conscience, no morality, no concept of consent. She saw it all. That this was her life and all her life would ever be because it was ending. And a small, intrepid storm began to stir in the confines of her slowing heart, as a voice—her own voice—asked inwardly: _Are you ready to die?_ And she answered it: _No._ Her arms were numb, her hands and fingers blue and clumsy, still somehow she managed to reach into the top of her boot and grasp the box cutter she’d hidden. Henry didn’t notice. He was preoccupied watching the life drain form her eyes. As her vision narrowed to a pinhole, Dana swung her arm and raked the blade clean through Henry’s face.  
She could breathe again. Henry spun and crumbled to the ground as the ringing in her ears began to quiet. Her chest heaved in agony but the air came, rushing through her lips and into her lungs raw and rocky. She put a hand to her throat and sat up, choking on the breath she so desperately needed. He was screaming. Not a grunt or a growl, no chance of pushing through the pain this time, no harnessing it to fuel his madness. His voice was as devastated as a grieving mother’s, shrill and cracked with tears. His cheek hung open like a curtain and he tried desperately to hold the flaps of flesh together, hands fumbling, slick. There was so much blood; blood from his cheek, from his broken nose; his friends’ blood, Dana’s blood.  
She stood, settling off the well’s stones and eyed Henry coldly, warily, as he continued to writhe. For the first time he looked truly scared. His god-complex was fraying to fringe before his eyes—it was bleeding out of him. But it wasn’t enough. Wounds would heal. Dana knew as much. She’d watched her own cuts close, bruises fade, bones mend. And she knew the same would happen to him. His body would fix itself and all that would be left behind were echoes, just as his had been imprinted on her. Dana would feel guilt and helplessness and humiliation for years and years to come as a result of Henry’s attack and she knew it, just as she knew the only thing Henry would walk away with was anger. He wouldn’t learn. He’d suffer, he’d heal, he’d repeat his actions. There was no straying from the path upon which he was set. It was too late for that.  
Dana picked up the chain where she’d dropped it. She walked to Henry in silence. He tried desperately to scramble to his feet. With every step her anger burned hotter. She wound the chain around her hand, encasing it in the heavy iron. As Henry finally managed to stand she swung, slamming her metal-cloaked fist into his jaw. Teeth exploded from his mouth like confetti and he was on the ground again. One hand groped his mashed face as he attempted to crawl to his knees. But Dana wasn’t finished, no, not by a long shot. She brought her foot down on his back, slamming into his spine and he went flat, gasping. He crunched his body into a ball, tried to shield his face. Dana mounted him, twisting him off his side and onto his back, dropping her weight onto his stomach. He swung at her limply and missed. Pain and blood loss had made him weak, made him sloppy. She cocked her fist and let it soar, landing another punch to his jaw. It raked through his open wound, tearing it wider. His eyes lolled back in his head as he went limp but she shook him back to consciousness, raised him up by the shirt and thudded into his face again. His still body made no more protests a she continued to rain down a fury of bludgeons, one after another after another, until the chain was too slick with blood to hold onto. She shook it off her hand, tossed it aside, continued bashing into his face, bare fist pounding like a vengeful a hammer. And all the while she screamed at the top of her lungs all the words that had been trapped in her throat, gagged by so many men.  
“YOU SICK REDNECK RAPING MOTHER FUCKER! YOU SCUM-SUCKING PIG-FUCKING SACK OF SHIT! WAKE THE FUCK UP! DO YOU HEAR ME NOW? DO YOU FUCKING _HEAR_ ME YOU SHIT-SUCKING MOTHER FUCKER? YOU DIDN’T FUCKING HEAR ME WHEN I SAID NO! YOU DIDN’T FUCKING HEAR ME! CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? CAN YOU _FEEL_ ME? CAN YOU FUCKING FEEL ME YOU MOTHER FUCKING PIG?! EAT MY FUCKING FIST YOU PIECE OF SHIT! FUCKING CHOKE ON IT! FUCKING CHOKE!”  
Into every blow she funneled her fury, her frustration. Each scream of obscenity was a lash at years of silence, years of sickened acceptance. She beat him until her arm was sore, until her hand felt broken, until his face didn’t look like a face. Still she kept going, thundering down blow after blow, raising his shoulders to smash his head into the ground, clawing into his throat with her fingers. She stopped only when Mike, roused from unconsciousness by her cries, came up behind her and wrapped her in a bear hug, tugging her off Henry’s body. She fought him at first but he held her tight, surprisingly strong for his young age. “It’s ok,” he insisted. “It’s ok. You got him.” Dana shook as the adrenaline swirled tremors through her muscles. “You got him,” Mike affirmed again, gently. “You got him.”


	26. I Am the Clown of Disco Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief break everyone, been a heavy past couple of weeks. Good news is I've gone down to one job which eliminates a huge amount of stress, yeesh!  
> Here's the very long, very clowny chapter 26, named after a Fancy Rosie song. Technically not even a real band, she was a Portuguese model with a brief musical career. Though her singles aren't widely regarded as punk music (rather "fake punk" crafted by capitalists) I think they're pretty rad. And this particular song is just too perfectly suited for this chapter...it's fun but also weirdly disturbing. Hope you enjoy.

 

“What the hell is going on up there?” Eddie squeaked. His large eyes stared hopelessly at the mouth of the well. They’d heard nothing but muffled screams for the past few minutes, strange animal-like yips and grunts.  
“I-I don’t kn-kn-know.” Bill scanned the walls, searched for stones thick enough to scale.  
“Don’t even think about it,” Richie snapped, reading his mind. “it’s fucking suicide!”  
“B-but we gotta do something!”  
The noises stopped. All was silent.  
“That’s it,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “that’s it I know it, it’s over. He killed em.’ Fucking Bowers killed em’ both I know it, I just fucking know it-”  
“Don’t say that!” Stan screeched, putting his hands to his ears as though the words themselves hurt.  
“I knew it,” Richie said angrily. “It was her fucking fault—that fucking suicidal chick! Bowers was after her! It’s her fault!”  
“Sh-shut up Richie!”  
“I fucking knew that girl would fuck us over, I told you!”  
“Richie shut the fuck up!” Eddie yelled, shoving him back against the tunnel wall.  
“Fuck off Ed!” Richie shot back. “Just because you want her to take your virginity-”  
“Shhh!” Ben hissed, finger to his lips. “Listen…”  
Very faintly they could hear footsteps approaching above them. Bill pointed his flashlight shakily at the opening and the boys held their breath, expecting to be greeted by Henry’s psychotic scowl. Instead, they saw Dana, flushed and panting, blood spattered across her face and neck. She wasn’t there more than a second before Mike appeared next to her.  
“Holy shit!” Eddie cried in relief. “they’re ok!”  
“W-where’s B-B-Bowers?” Bill asked.  
Dana and Mike exchanged looks but didn’t answer. “Don’t move,” Mike called. “We’re coming down.”

Dana could barely hold onto the rope on the way down; her right hand was so swollen it was hard to bend her fingers; she was pretty sure a couple of them were broken. She and Mike made it to the alcove in the tunnel and the boys swarmed around them, babbling questions.  
“What the fuck happened up there?” Richie demanded anxiously. “Where’s Bowers?”  
Mike looked at his feet, hands in his pockets. Dana swallowed. “He’s still up there,” she said quietly.  
“Last we saw it—it looked like he was gonna kill you,” Eddie said, coming up beside her. “He had his hands around your throat. I was so sure-”  
“I’m ok,” Dana interrupted.  
“Is h-h-he-”  
“He’s not a threat to anyone now,” Mike said firmly. Then, turning to Dana he added “thank you, for what you did. I’d be dead otherwise.”  
Dana met his eyes and nodded. “Same.” 

 

They made their way at what felt like a snail’s pace through the tunnels. Dana led. Her hand was so sore she could barely close her fingers around the box cutter. She tried to keep the boys in an even huddle so no one had to trail behind. At one point Stan slipped from their party. They found him pinned, struggling against a pale, slender-faced woman. Her jaw, unhinged like as snake, was locked around his face to silence his screams. Rows of shark-like teeth sheathed in glistening gums pierced the sides of his trembling cheeks. Dana didn’t question what she saw. She rushed at it, blade outstretched. But the thing released Stan and slinked away into an adjacent tunnel before any of them could strike.  
By the time they reached the end of the tunnel everyone was skirting the edge of a nervous breakdown. Stan still had tears in his eyes and Eddie was having a hard time breathing. They stepped into a huge chamber with boundless depth, dimly lit by hazy gray light. They were deep in the bowels of the town now and the distance back to the top seemed impossible to comprehend. Piles of rusted relics towered around them: obsolete toys and tools, mounds of moldy shoes, clothes, interspersed with yellowed bones, some dry some with meat scraps still clinging. Orbiting the tower of antiquity floated the corpses of children, some whole, some reduced to shreds or pieces. They were suspended in air, in time, their terror preserved like some sick, manifold trophy. The group stared at the spectacle, wide-eyed and silent in sadness. Then one at a time they began to notice something else. In the center of the space, only about ten feet up, floated Beverly, glassy-eyed and still. Her face was frozen in morbidity, head and limbs hung limp as a rag doll.  
“Beverly!” Ben cried. He raced towards her, splashing hastily through patches of oily, gray water. He reached for her, stood on his toes, grasping. The others rushed to help him. They tugged her down, fighting the lack of gravity that held her captive. Ben shook her shoulders frantically. “Beverly! Beverly? Why won’t she wake up?”  
“I don’t know,” Dana said honestly.  
“Is she dead?”  
Dana felt for a pulse. “No. She’s alive. She’s just…frozen.”  
The boys looked at her expectantly. Stan elbowed Dana in the arm. “Do something!”  
“I don’t know—I don’t know what to do.”  
“Just try,” Ben implored. He took Beverly’s petrified hand in his own and held it.  
Dana felt awkward with everyone’s eyes one her; oddly maternal. She took a deep breath, turned to Beverly, took the girl by her thin shoulders. “Listen,” she began. “if you can hear me. You need to snap out of this. This thing—It’s not what you’re afraid of. You’re afraid of your dad. And he can’t hurt you now. You stopped him. _You_ did that. You stood up for yourself. It was a long time coming. And I’m so proud of you.” She pulled Beverly’s stiff body into a hug, apologizing internally for what she was about to do next. “Now wake up,” she whispered. Without warning she drew her hand back and slapped Beverly across the face has hard as she could.  
“Jesus Christ!” Richie yelled.  
Ben’s brow furrowed in anger as he dove at Dana. Mike and Eddie caught him by the shoulders just in time for Beverly to emit a small gasp. The haziness faded from her eyes and her face blossomed with color. She put her hand to her stinging cheek as she stared at the group in confusion.  
“What—what happened?” she asked.  
“You’re ok!” Ben beamed, throwing his thick arms around her. Stan exhaled a sigh of relief.  
“What are you doing here?” Beverly asked, taking a step in Dana’s direction.  
“We came to find you.”  
“But how—how did you know?”  
Dana smiled weakly. “Turns out we all have something in common. This thing that took you—it’s been following me for months. I thought I was going crazy. But then your friend Bill told me-”  
“Where is Bill?” Beverly asked, looking around them nervously.  
Dana swept her eyes over the boys and her heart sank. “He was just here.”  
“Bill?” Richie called out. “Bill!”  
The others joined in, spreading out, darting their flashlights frantically through the darkness.  
What they heard in response was a raspy, guttural scream, thick with subhuman vibration. Then Bill’s voice came, small and angry to combat it.  
“Guys!” Eddie screamed, pointing in the sounds direction. They took off, rounding the corner of the towering pile of scrap, scraping themselves on the ruins as they raced. When they reached the other side they stopped cold, too panic-stricken to proceed. Bill was on the ground, and It was clinging to him, mouth dilated to the depths of its capacity, back arched and shoulders stooped to cage his small body in its own tangled length of limbs. It stopped when It heard them, retracted its jaw and pulled Bill off the ground, winding a snake-like arm around his neck. It dared them silently, to advance. It looked differently than she remembered. Its face was still plastered with the same manic grin but it seemed frailer, almost anemic. Its suit no longer emitted that pristine shimmer; it was stained, soiled with rusty body remnants and putrid sewer water. It’s eyes gleamed red around the toxic yellow iris, fingers twitched nervously as they curled tighter around Bill’s throat. Dana stood in front of the others, breathing heavily as a sickening sense dread lapped at her bones.  
“Let him go!” Beverly took a step towards them but Dana stuck her arm out, dissuading her.  
“Don’t,” she whispered.  
The clown chuckled nervously. “You’d do well to listen to her,” he tittered, bending further over Bill and raking a gloved hand through his hair.  
“Don’t touch him!” Eddie screeched, his tiny frame shaking with rage.  
“I’ll do more,” the clown growled, continuing to stroke Bill’s hair. “I’ll sink my teeth into his muscle. I’ll suck the marrow from his quivering bones, feast until I’ve had my fill of his flesh. Make no mistake,” he warbled. “he will die weeping.” The clown lowered its head, stared down at Bill, yellow eyes dancing with anticipation. Trails of moisture hung from its licorice lips. Dana took a step towards it, blade at the ready, and the clown snapped out if its fixation. “But,” It continued. “ _you_ can leave, you can _all_ crawl from this place and just forget. I think you’ll find it’s quite easy to forget,” he went on, in ingratiating cadence.  
The group exchanged fearful glances in silence. “Guys,” Beverly cried, appalled. “we can’t just leave him!”  
“Oh but you can,” It sang back rocking on its haunches. “It’s a worthy sacrifice: the life of one to supply the sanctuary of so many.”  
Bill had stopped fighting. There was defeat in his voice when he spoke. “Go,” he croaked quietly. “J-just go. I d-d-don’t want a-anybody else to g-g-get hurt. Not b-because of me.”  
The clown threw its head back and cackled, stroking Bill’s hair crudely, the way a troubled child might pet a cat.  
“Go,” Bill repeated softly. “J-just leave-”  
“Nobody’s leaving,” Dana interrupted, steadying her voice as best she could. “Here’s what’s gonna happen…” she paused, taking a careful step closer. The clown snarled, his smile flickering. “you’re gonna let him go. You’re gonna let them all go. And I’ll stay.”  
“What?” Eddie shrieked.  
Beverly grimaced. “Dana, no-”  
“Everyone shut up.” Dana advanced another step. “I’m telling you how it is. You eat me, or you don’t get fed.”  
The clown glared at her. Its jaw jiggled in amusement; curiosity. “A tempting offer,” It replied. “but, as it were, I prefer the calf to the cow.” He licked his red lips wetly.  
“Come on,” Dana urged, trying not to flinch. “look at him.” She gestured to Bill, her arm shaking. “Look how tiny he is. You think that’s gonna fill you up? You think that’s gonna be enough? Look at me.” Dana took another step. “Look at me,” she repeated. “I’m bigger than he is. I’m stronger than he is. I’ll feed you for longer. Aren’t you hungry?” she asked, almost sympathetically.  
It stared at her. Thick saliva ropes rolled down its chin. It had begun to loosen its grip on Bill’s neck and Dana had noticed. “I’ll admit,” It rasped slowly. “I could smell your fear from the bowels of these chambers. And it whet my appetite, yes it did. It was perhaps even you who woke me,” he went on, eyeing her with increasing fascination. “your fear, so fresh. So debilitating.”  
“So what are you waiting for?” Dana asked, taking another step. “Let him go. Eat me.”  
“D-Dana,” Bill cried.  
“D-Dana,” It mimicked, raking a dark tongue over its teeth.  
She took a final step. “Bill,” she said, keeping her eyes on the clown. “Give me your hand.” Slowly, It relinquished its grip on Bill entirely and let him drop to the ground. Bill scrambled to his feet, taking Dana’s outstretched hand. His eyes welled with tears, lips trembling as he tried to speak. “D-don’t do this.”  
Dana shook her head. “Go to your friends,” she whispered. She turned just long enough to be sure he’d made it to the safety of the group. The second she turned back It was on her, fingers worming around her arms, lifting her off her feet, screeching with laughter as it slammed her hard and high against the wall. She groaned as her ribs took another beating. The clown’s poreless face shook with hysteria, honey-thick mucus pooling in its ruffled collar. It leaned in close, burrowing into the nape of her neck and took a long sniff. When It exhaled its eyelids fluttered back in ecstasy. “Mmmmmmm,” It groaned. “truly, how tempting it is to taste you here and now, before the crying eyes of these young things.” Dana winced as It raked its long tongue up the side of her face. “but,” It continued shrilly. “I much prefer to savor my food. It is terror that makes the flesh tender. As long as you fear what lies between your legs I will have sweat meat from you, girl.”  
Dana could hear the others cry out screams of protest. Their voices sounded very far away. She felt weightless as It held her, paralyzed in submission. The box cutter was still wedged between her fingers but her arms were pinned to the sides and she doubted stabbing it would have much effect on its own anyway. Its eyes bore into hers, scorching them; their faces were so close she could smell the stench of people of its breath. Then it occurred to her: the only weapon she had against it—her only defense—was to show It that it didn’t know her, that it was wrong, that her fears weren’t part of its catalogue, that she couldn’t be predicted or manipulated, that she was in control. And so fighting every natural inclination, every urge, Dana closed her eyes, leaned forward, and kissed It, directly on it’s wet, rubbery lips. She tasted its putridity, the rank skin cells tangled in its teeth, felt the cold burn of white-hot lights extending from the expanse of its throat. She could feel its lips petrify against hers, their rubbery texture transform into corpse-like rigidity. She ignored all of it, didn’t withdraw her lips until she was ready. Then, slowly, she opened her eyes. It stared back at her, yellow irises pale and sickly, swimming unbalanced in veiny white pools. Its grin had flipped into a trembling, revolted grimace. It was weakening. She could feel it.  
“Chump,” Dana whispered spitefully. “You don’t know me.” She jerked her arm free, ramming the box cutter’s short blade into its chest. The clown’s gory eyes bulged like balloons near bursting. It dug its pointed fingers into Dana’s shoulders, threw its head back, and shrieked, its cry a choir of morbid static. She withdrew the blade and shoved it in again, twisting it at the entrance. It screeched, shaking its head at violent velocity, tearing Dana from the wall and flinging her to the ground. She landed on her side, grunting as she skidded to a stop. Skin sanded from her healing knees and elbows.  
“Dana!” Beverly cried. She and Eddie rushed to her, helping her to her feet as the clown continued to scream. Sonic tremors spilled from its throat and shook the walls. The eight of them surrounded It, taking up anything they could weaponize. Richie rushed it first, swinging a wooden bat into its contorted face while Bill cracked it across the back with a chain. It lurched, barking garbled and gagging as Mike delivered a blow to its torso with a scrap of sheet metal. With every strike they delivered the clown mutated, attempting new forms to terrorize. The crooked woman lunged at Stan, razor teeth barred and snapping but he stood his ground, raised his fence post over his head and brought it soaring down like a spear. It choked, spewing a jet of tawny slime into Eddie’s face as it took on the guise of a festering leper, pus-weeping eyes rolled back in sore-speckled sockets. He screamed, kicking it furiously with all his might and it summersaulted backwards, taking on another shape. Alvin Marsh’s smug face revealed itself to Beverly and she slammed her spike down its throat with a fierce battle cry. It coughed, spat up the remnants of metal, sealing its skin in a slick rubber coating, tar-dipped, sleek and shiny. The gimp rushed at Dana, round eye sockets wide-stretched, zippered mouth folded into a puppet grin. She matched its force, slamming herself into it and stabbing as fast and furiously as she could, digging the box cutter blade into it over and over and over until its black blood singed her fingers. They fought It until it lacked the stamina to maintain its deception. When the clown’s countenance returned it was more gray than white, its eyes bloodshot, cheeks shaking. Its mouth churned and gaped expressionless as it scuttled backwards, flipping limply down the master sewer pipe. The group closed in on it, weapons raised.  
“Now you’re the one whose afraid,” Bill said. His voice was clear and strong, not a hint of stutter to his words. “Because you’re gonna starve.”  
The clown cowered, sniveling. It clung to the lip of the drain for a brief second before uttering one word. “Fear.” It let go. The darkness swallowed and It was gone.


	27. We Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lil chapter, song title by Patti Smith. If you haven't heard this song give it a listen. It's like melted chocolate for your ears...
> 
> Also, got a little announcement for ya'll. As we approach the end of the story, I just wanted to say how much I appreciate everyone who has read/continued to read and invest in this story (and well...me, really lol). Your support truly makes my heart melt with happiness. I am so grateful to you all...soooooo...I will be assembling a few lil GOTR themed gift packages to send out free of charge to a few folks. Pictured below is a shirt I hand-painted with designs from imagery I pulled from the story. It's just a prototype, but it gives you kind of an idea of what they will look like. I'll be making three more shirts, (one if which is already spoken for @Bry <3), and sending them out along with a few other goodies to anyone who wants one. If anyone else is interested please feel free to let me know!  
> I appreciate ya'll a lot. Thanks for the love  
> xxx ooo

The sun had started to dip in lazy below the horizon. Birds sang summer sounds and the air was sweet with humidity. Dana wasn’t sure what time it was when they reached the barrens. Her watch had fallen off somewhere in the sewers, another relic to add to the heap. They were quiet as they convened, bloody and bruised. The adrenaline that surged through their blood had slowed to a crawl. They distanced themselves from the sewer, wandering out into field of golden grass. It was there that Dana addressed them.  
“Ok,” she began, quietly. “we need to get our story straight.”  
“What do you mean?” Eddie asked. “What story?”  
“There has to be an explanation or this is not gonna look good. Four people are dead. And Bev and I are the ones that are gonna catch the flack for it unless we have a believable story that we can all stick to. That fair?” She looked around the circle expectantly. Their faces were somber. They nodded. “Good. Ok. Here’s what I got…”  
They listened as she wove her story, concentrated on memorizing every detail of it. Each of them recited it back in perfect alignment, every version a careful rewording of the same events. When they were all in agreement Dana let out an exhausted sigh and nodded in silent affirmation. Then she looked at Beverly. “I’ll give you a minute. You do your thing. I’ll be at the truck when you’re ready.” Beverly nodded as Dana turned to leave.  
“What—that’s it?” Richie asked accusingly.  
Dana turned back to them. She looked from one to the next, feeling a strange, hollow feeling; a distance that drove a wedge between herself and the seven of them. The things that they’d seen—that they’d all survived—had united in them in a way. And yet she felt her self slipping from that bond. Those kids had time working in their favor, still young enough to heal or repress for awhile if need be. Their brains would swallow their suffering as hers had at their age. Looking at them she felt old, so much older than her 21 years. Her mind reflected that span of time; it had already taken in too much trauma. She would stay if she could, act as ally and protector. She’d faced Henry Bowers and the thing in the sewer, but her past would continue to plague her as long as she stayed in Derry. And it made her sad, really, genuinely sad to be blatant with her honesty. Maybe she was more of a sap than she’d thought. But either way she was still an outsider. She didn’t belong to this family. She didn’t belong to any. And there would be no point in pretending. So instead she shrugged, tried to force a smile but her eyes told the truth. “That’s all I got.”


	28. Oh Bondage, Up Yours!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter since the last one was short. Here you can find out Dana's plan to keep everyone squeaky clean where the law is concerned.   
> Chapter Title Song by X-Ray Spex: truly the best of the best, so much love ;)

“On August 24th at approximately 8 AM one Henry Bowers had an altercation with his father, one Oscar “Butch” Bowers. The disagreement, likely regarding his obsession with a 14-year-old girl, one Beverly Marsh, resulted in him stabbing his father in the throat, killing him. After-”  
“Wait—go back.”  
The officer paused, eyebrows raised. She was young and pretty with blond hair and hazel eyes, nails clean, well-manicured but unpainted. There was a hint of townie twang in her speech.  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Henry killed his father? His father’s dead?”  
“Sheriff Oscar Bowers was murdered the morning of August 24th shortly after 9 AM.”  
Dana tried hard to conceal the shock on her face. “I didn’t know that.”  
“May I continue?”  
Dana nodded.  
“At approximately 9:30 AM Henry went to Beverly Marsh’s apartment on foot. There was a scuffle between him and the girl’s father, one Alvin Marsh. Bowers struck him in the head with a piece of plumbing hardware, killing him. He then proceeded to kidnap Beverly, hotwiring her father’s Forest Green 1975 Chevy C/K Truck to use as a getaway car. At approximately 10:00 AM he met up with two friends, one Reginald “Belch” Huggins and one Victor Criss, who followed Bowers and Marsh to an abandoned house on the corner of 29 and Neibolt Streets where Bowers planned to hide the girl. At some point there was a disagreement between Bowers, Huggins, and Kriss. At some point during the argument Bowers killed them with a knife, stashing their bodies in Huggin’s 1984 Cobalt Blue Trans Am. As he prepared to assault Marsh one Dana Matthews, who was nearby on foot, heard screams coming from the inside of the house. She entered at approximately 10:15 AM to find Bowers attempting to assault the girl. When she tried to intervene Bowers attacked her. At which point several boys—one Richard Tozier, one Edward Kaspbrack, one Michael Hanlon, one William Denborough, one Stanley Uris, and one Benjamin Hanscom—rode their bikes through the area and stopped at the house, daring each other to go inside as a game. Hanlon and Uris entered and upon seeing the scuffle tried to intervene. Both boys sustained minor injuries. Uris sustained wounds to the head and face, while Hanlon sustained minor spinal abrasions. A fight ensued between Bowers and Matthews and Matthews, in self defense, critically injured Bowers. Once-”  
“I’m sorry,” Dana interrupted, raising her hand. “You said ‘injured?’”  
“That is correct ma’am, Bowers was critically injured as a result of the altercation between the two of you.”  
Her heart swerved. “So, he’s alive?”  
“He remains in serious condition at Derry General, yes ma’am.”  
Dana swallowed. “I see. Go ahead.”  
“With Bowers unconscious Matthews emerged from the house with Marsh, Hanlon, and Uris. The four waited at Alvin Marsh’s truck while Tozier, Denborough, Kaspbrack, and Hanlon went for help.” She paused, looking up from the paper. “That’s the report I’ve assembled based on the testimony of all involved parties. Does it sound like an accurate depiction of the events that transpired on August 24th?”   
“Yes.”  
“Do you have any additional questions for me at this time or any additional comments you’d like to make?”  
“…Does this mean I can leave Derry?”  
The officer nodded curtly. “Yes ma’am at this time you are not under suspicion of any nefarious involvement in this case and you are free to travel as you please.”  
“Ok. Then I guess we’re done here.” Dana stood, gathering her bag from the back of the chair.  
“Just one more thing Miss Matthews,” the officer said, gesturing to the chair. “If you wouldn’t mind.”   
Dana sighed and sat back down.  
“There are a few minor details that I did exclude from this report.”  
She raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”  
The officer leaned over the metal table, her face softening. “Miss Matthews I was one of the first officers to respond to the scene at Neibolt. I saw the state that boy was in when I got there. He was beaten within an inch of his life…beaten with the force and anger of someone awful vengeful.”  
Dana’s skin spiked. Her palms began to sweat. “He attacked me,” she said dryly.  
The officer leaned in further. “Miss Matthews—Dana—when you were taken to the hospital on August 24th you refused to be X-rayed. There were bruises visible on your body that had already begun to heal, cuts that had been re-opened. Now tell me, was this the first time Henry Bowers attacked you?”  
A lump settled into the center of Dana’s throat. She swallowed it with some difficulty. “Do I have to answer that?” she asked, in a thin voice.  
The woman’s face flooded with sympathy. She took one of Dana’s hands in her own. It was cool, soft-skinned. “No. You don’t. If I could be candid with you for a moment?” she asked, her voice hushed and earnest. “There was something rotten in their blood, those Bowers’ men, something polluting them. Not surprised Henry did what he did. I worked very closely with Butch Bowers. Old bastard had it coming. And from what I heard through the grapevine so did his son. Way that Marsh girl tells it you saved her life. It’s a goddamn horror show out there for our sex. And from what I can see it’s only getting worse. Us girls gotta look out for each other. Far as I’m concerned you deserve a damn medal.”


	29. I Wanna Go Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter. It's a shortie, but I think it says everything I want it to say. Thank you to everyone who has read/continues to read this story. It's very personal and I appreciate your support more than I can properly express.   
> Final chapter title song by Holly and the Italians. I can't listen to it without crying lol  
> Thank you again everyone. 
> 
> ALSO...there may or may not be an epilogue...but there totally is ;)

The Gremlin looked as shiny and pristine as it had when she’d first pulled out of the garage days ago. The only explanation Dana could offer was that when It died every trace of its existence went with it; each illusion conjured dissolved as It cracked and decayed in the depths of the sewer pipes.   
Beverly’s aunt had driven down from Portland. She was thin, gracefully long with a stern jaw but kind eyes, dark and glassy like a dove’s. Wispy chestnut hair framed her face, gently tugged by the morning’s warm wind. She stood by the door of her station wagon, wary but silent as Beverly helped Dana load the last of her things into the trunk of her car. She didn’t have much: a duffle bag, a few boxes, two suitcases, and her record player.  
“Guess this is it,” Dana said, twirling her keys.  
Beverly’s eyes shined. “Do you know where you’re going yet?”  
Dana laughed wearily. “Not really.” She licked her dry lips, wincing as her tongue swerved around a cut still healing. “I’ll find something.” She was unsure which one of them she was trying to convince. “I’ll find a good place.”  
“You have my new address right?” Beverly asked. Her voice was quiet, a little wobbly. “And you’ll send me yours? When you have it?”  
Dana raised her eyebrows. “Of course.”  
“You promise?” She didn’t blink for as long as she could, tried to contain the moisture that coated her eyes. When she finally gave in a waterfall rushed down her freckled cheeks. She wiped at them hastily.   
Dana had to hold her breath to keep from tearing up herself. “I promise,” she said as she exhaled slow. She looked at Beverly, arched her eyebrows and gave her a shoulder a playful punch. “Don’t go soft on me now Marsh. You’re a badass. Badasses don’t cry.”   
Beverly sniffed, looking down and scuffing the toes of her shoes together as she always did when she had feelings she didn’t like. She didn’t crack a smile though. With her eyes still downcast she said in a voice barely audible, “sometimes they do.”  
The simplicity of her words, the honesty, cut Dana like a hot knife through butter. It was counter-intuitive to her nature but she ignored her angst and disdain for human contact. She took a step forward, opened her arms, and wrapped the girl in a hug. It felt awkward at first. Then the strangeness settled into a vaguely comforting consciousness as Beverly returned the hug with far more ferocity, clinging to Dana’s waist as though she was holding on for dear life to the mast of a sinking ship.  
It was different than Dana had thought it would be. It hurt more than the other goodbyes: more than her little apartment, now barren but once some unattainable paradise; more than sweet, clueless Terry, lanky giant so gentle and genuine; more than fanny-pack Eddie, whose clammy hand she’d shaken when they said their goodbyes, his sparrow eyes widening when they met hers; more than stuttering Bill Denborough, the truly tragic boy with the heart of a lion; more than Mike Halnon, with whom she shared a special kind of bond: she owed him her life, he owed her his; more than Richie and his quick-silver trashmouth; Stan’s thoughtful composure; Ben’s earnestness. With Beverly she was saying goodbye to a true friend and confidante, a sister.   
When they released each other both were a mess, though Dana was more adept at hiding it.   
“Well...” she began, her voice hoarse.  
“Yeah,” said Beverly.  
Then Dana remembered. “Oh shit! I have something for you.”   
She reached into her car, dug for a moment, extracted a small cardboard box which she offered to the girl. Beverly pried back the lips. Inside were two rows of tapes and an unopened pack of cigarettes: Lucky Strikes.  
“Keep those devil sticks on the down-low,” she said slyly. “In terms of music you got a bunch of different stuff in there. So when you write me make sure you tell me which ones you like.”  
Beverly smiled sadly. “I will.”  
“Cool. Take care of yourself.”  
“You too.”  
Dana clamped the handle and popped the driver’s door open. Beverly turned, taking a deep breath to steady the hiccupping sob building in her throat.   
“Beverly,” Dana called softly.  
She turned.  
“Remember, if you need anything I’m a phone call away. Well—I will be. Once I have a phone…” She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly and Beverly smiled. There was more warmth than sadness in it that time.   
Dana slid the key into the ignition, relishing the metallic click. She made to put in a tape, then thought she might give the radio a chance, twisting the knob carefully until she heard Patti Smith’s coarse voice flood the speakers:  
You said when you were with me that nothing made you high. We drank all night together and you began to cry so recklessly. Baby, please, don’t take my hope away from me.  
Beverly waved, her aunt’s willowy hand upon her shoulder. And Dana took her foot of the break.


	30. Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EPILOGUE  
> Title song by Atims

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, months later: the prologue.  
> I'll be doing one big long edit on the story from here on out and possibly updating chapters/reposting if there's anything that changes significantly.  
> I want to apologize for how long it took to finally post this final chapter, even though it's quit short.  
> I also want to thank everyone for who took time out of their day to read this story, everyone who commented, everyone who left kudos. If I could get vulnerable for a sec...this story helped me work through a lot of trauma. Writing it was so therapeutic for me, allowing me to share my story in an avenue where I felt safe and comfortable, anonymous, supported. It was such a positive experience and I couldn't be more grateful. 
> 
> side note: I'm in the process of painting shirts and assembling small GOTR packages for anyone who wants one. So far I have 6 requests, feel free to comment or message me if you're interested :)

No mountains. No ocean. Too dramatic; too much poetry by association. Dana wanted someplace flat and central so she drove west. No map, just following signs. Philadelphia was a contender for awhile, but at only seven hours it didn’t put enough distance between her and Derry. Same with Cleveland; thirteen hours was better but if she could make the trip in a day, it was too close. She drove further towards the middle, stopped a couple of times to sleep for an hour or two or choke down some food. The road slinked out before her, an infinite charcoal ribbon sandwiched between acres of corn and soy beans.  
In the end it was Detroit. The size seemed right. It was big enough to be anonymous but not overwhelming like New York or Chicago. Furthermore, she’d heard good things about the music scene there. Record labels popping up there were signing upstart punk bands, and according to a few folks she’d spoken to in Philly, Detroit was on its way to becoming a Mecca for hardcore; Necros, Negative Approach, Degenerates, all based out of Detroit.  
It was a grimy city. The sidewalks reeked of pee, worse when it rained. The summer air thick with Midwest humidity. Everyone littered. Everyone smoked. The economy wasn’t great but there was no shortage of bars. Within a few days she’d scored a job te at a little dive called Abick’s. She found an apartment within walking distance that she could afford. The neighborhood wasn’t great but she felt safe there, safer than she ever had in Derry. There was nothing sinister lurking beneath the surface, no hidden sickness, no startling secrets. If a street looked dicey Dana took a different one. If she heard gun shots outside her apartment she stayed in for awhile. She figured out which neighborhoods had bad gang activity and avoided them. She walked with a weapon in her hand and stayed alert at night. It was manageable, no surprises. 

At first the nausea was easy to overlook. Dana chocked it up to nerves; a new place, new schedule. She focused on settling in. She bought furniture at the thrift store, unpacked her record collection, wrote Beverly, went to work, checked out a couple of shows, established a routine. It felt good. Normal. Then the cravings started. 4 AM, staring down at a plate of rare steak and sunnyside eggs Dana knew something was wrong. She’d been to the corner diner three times that week, each time ordering some variation of bloody meat and raw eggs, and each time wolfing it down as though she hadn’t eaten in days, tilting the plate to lick the fuchsia juices and grease bubbles. Dana had never been fond of red meat, and runny eggs had made her gag her since she was a kid.  
Alcohol was making her sick. Not even drinking it, just smelling it was enough to turn her stomach. One night at work she was stirring a Manhattan and caught a whiff of the cheap bourbon. She gagged. When a drag from a cigarette yielded similar results, she started to get scared. _There’s no way. No fucking way in hell._  
That night hunger pains ripped her from her dreams, tunneling into her sides like hot lead. Her stomach twisted, acid bubbled and spat onto its writhing walls. _Fuck off._ She rolled onto her side, pulled the covers up to her chin and willed herself back to sleep. An hour later she was hunched over the toilet. Her hands clung to the porcelain as sickness irrupted from her like fireworks. Salt beads stippled her forehead. She spit the last remnants of bile into the sink, splashed her cheeks with cool water, sank back onto the floor. She leaned against the wall, rested her head on it. Her heart was pounding, breath crashing in and out of her lungs faster and faster. She tried to focus on the the sounds drifting in through the window: shouting voices, car horns, sirens, pigeons scuttling for warmth. Nothing could drown out the voice in her head, deafening in its judgment. _How? How could you have overlooked this? Are you that stupid? He didn’t use a condom. You knew there was a chance. You knew._  
Another bout of nausea rushed over her, coming in like angry waves at high tide. She was empty but it didn’t stop her from retching. It was pointless to check now. What would be gained from buying a test, aiming her pee awkwardly on the stick, waiting for two cheery pink lines to confirm what she already knew.  
“Well, fuck.”


	31. ANNOUNCEMENT!

Hey Ya'll!

Got a lil post-xmas announcement for ya:

First and foremost, thank you if you've read/are reading this story! If you've gone out of your way to comment, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you for your support and kindness. This story is very personal to me and definitely helped me over some emotional hurtles I've been struggling with...which is why I think it can be better >:) SOOOOOO...I'm going to be going through it again with a fine-tooth editing comb and re-working/re-writing it. Definitely not starting over or changing the characters/main plot trajectory, but there are parts I think could be stronger/more fleshed out and definitely some grammatical errors that need fixing. There is also the possibility of new chapters/extensions/a new ending. Who knows! I'll be editing the chapters starting Thursday and re posting one per week with new pictures under Girl on the Run Reworked (uploaded as a new story).

On the merch front, I've already shipped out three packages to readers who requested them. I'm doing it free of charge as a thank you for reading, so if anyone else is interested message me a mailing address or PO box where you'd like yours sent. Everything included is handmade and relates to the story. 

Final announcement:  
In addition to re-working Girl on the Run, I'm also gonna start taking requests, so if you have anything that you're dying to read in relation to IT/bowersgang feel free to send it my way and I'll do my best to knock it out of the park for ya. 

Happy holidays <3 <3 <3


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